Against the Wind
by How Now Meow
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. In France, a slightly damaged Sherlock Holmes reunites with a certain slightly damaged Woman. The adventure that follows is both strange and dangerous, but that's what they like. HIATUS. MY LIFE IS SORT OF IN PIECES RIGHT NOW .
1. Have Nothing, Do Nothing

_A/N: Hi everyone! I'm fairly new to the BBC Sherlock fandom but let me tell you have FREAKING HAPPY I am that I've found it. Here's my first go at a Sherlock fic, and I've decided to go with one of my favorite pairings. The game is on!_

_3/18/12 - Just edited some errors :D  
_

* * *

**Against the Wind**

**Chapter 1**

The winds by the bay were soft and quiet, and the sea was calm. Montpellier City had found a moment of tranquility amid its usual madness. Sherlock hated it.

He slid open the sole window of the room to stare out towards the waves. The sun had begun to rise. The view of it was clear and free of smoke; there were no strong winds mixing salt into the air. He knew it meant that the breeze would be light for the day. It was unusually cool for a summer morning: eighteen-point-two degrees Celsius. There was nothing to analyze but the weather. Sherlock slumped back down into the sole chair of the room.

It had been exactly four months since his death. He wasn't doing well.

He'd been declared dead by two inept doctors in Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, and then hastily wheeled down to the morgue, where Molly kindly replaced his very-much-alive body with a corpse made to look very much like him with the aid of a mortician's tools. He easily escaped the building in a surgeon's outfit, complete with a cap, mask and _Dr Sigerson _nametag. Sherlock then fled to the seaside, where a small, shady boat service that demanded no ticket or passport – just the right amount of money – could take him easily to a bay in France. He left England with only his life and a few changes of clothes.

But of course, this was Sherlock Holmes – now homeless, nameless, and possibly friendless – at his most vulnerable. Before meeting with Moriarty on the rooftop, he found enough desperation within himself to swallow his pride and ask Mycroft – yes, _that _Mycroft – for some assistance. So as soon as he placed his foot on French ground, the papers Sherlock Holmes clutched helped him become William Campbell, a British chemist come to study coal tar in the bustling city of Montpellier.

But that was still on the other end of France. It took "Mr. Campbell" a month of walking, riding buses, walking and riding buses again to reach Montpellier. He couldn't risk flying.

Sherlock found a modest little apartment building next to the sea. It doubled as an inn for sailors and boat workers stopping at the bay for the night. It was perfect that way; nobody stayed long enough to become familiar with his face.

His new home was tiny but decent. The door opened into a white-tiled kitchen with a table and only one chair that Sherlock liked to move around the apartment. Beyond that was a one-person bed with rusting steel and a small desk to its left. Underneath the desk he kept his neatly folded piles of clothes; there was no closet to keep them in. Above the desk was the sole window of the apartment, a small screen window with several holes, but with an adequate view of the bay. To the left of that was the door to the bathroom. It had a sink with no mirror and no lever for hot water, a toilet, and a shower that broke frequently, but he learned how to repair it on his own.

Mycroft sent him money once a month. It was only enough for food and rent, and afforded Sherlock no luxuries (such as cigarettes or even nicotine patches). He could tell his brother was incredibly cross with him and his whole faked death scheme. Regardless, he was grateful. Even then, he couldn't send Mycroft any word of thanks – he found that too risky as well.

Sherlock put his feet up on the desk as he sat in his sole chair, and tilted his head back to look at the stained ceiling. In exchange for this quiet safety, he had lost everything else. He lost John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He lost 221B Baker Street.

And, of course, he'd lost a way not to feel bored.

And bored he was. For the next several weeks after settling in, Sherlock had nothing to do but walk both the old, narrow streets of Montpellier and the newer, paved ones. He guessed pedestrians' occupations and hobbies as they passed him, until it became too redundant. Then he spent entire days in the libraries he could find, flipping through magazines and textbooks and trying to understand. He eventually learned to speak a decent amount of French.

When the urge would come around again, he would simply stand in the pier, pretending to watch the sunset, while inhaling the cigarette smoke that the workers puffed out around him. It was nothing compared to the real thing, but it was enough to get him by.

And that was it. He had nothing and did nothing.

* * *

On this particular day, after moping about what he'd seen outside his window, Sherlock decided to buy himself a new scarf. His old one was still stained in "blood" from his "suicide". An effort of twisting and folding it the right way concealed the stain, but it was probably time to move on. Wearing it still gave him flashes from the day he died, something he didn't want to remember. It reminded him of 221B Baker Street and John.

Purchasing a new one meant sacrificing a fraction of his food budget, but he realized he didn't mind. He never finished the amount of food he would buy for himself anyway. He wrapped himself in the usual coat and set off.

He came back an hour and a half later wearing a maroon scarf. He'd rolled his old one into a ball and tucked it into a pocket, not having the heart to dispose of it. He walked down the road towards the bay. It was summer, so it was odd to have a scarf on, but he would never get used to the perpetual blowing of the sea breeze.

Sherlock stepped into the apartment building. There was no one there, save for the receptionist-slash-landlady sitting behind her desk, lit by single, weak light bulb hanging above her. She was a plump and quiet woman; Sherlock had figured it out before that she was the wife of a boat owner.

"_Monsieur Campbell, Monsieur," _she called, standing up from her chair. "_Vous avez__un visiteur, Monsieur.__"_

A visitor? An alarm went off in Sherlock's head. But he had no friends here. Who would want to visit?

The most obvious possibilities entered his mind first. _Mycroft! _He was coming to check up on his little brother. But why now? What was the point?

He looked at his other choices. _John? _Maybe he'd forced a confession out of Mycroft because he just _knew _Sherlock wasn't actually dead. He caught the first plane to France and spent weeks searching for his best friend. But would John go through all that trouble? Would he abandon his life just to find him?

One of the possibilities scrolling through his mind made him panic slightly. _Moriarty?_ Maybe he'd faked his death, too. He was somewhat of a genius too; he might have fonud a way. Maybe he knew he was alive, and he wanted to finish his job. He had to leave, and he had to leave immediately. Montpellier might no longer be safe.

"_Monsieur Campbell," _the woman started again. "_Il est de votre__sœur.__"_

Sherlock's train of thought screeched to a halt.

He stared at her, speechless, his eyes wide.

His… "_sister" _was here?


	2. I'm Dead, You're Dead

_A/N: Hi everyone! I'd like to thank nataliet9__, pulseelevated, Sumikou27, and Ori for the putting the story in their Favorites (this early in the game! I'm honored), barus, bruderlein, SnowGirl098, LookI'mUpThere, pulseelevated, Sumikou27 and theuniqueartistictype for adding it to their Alerts, and of course floratang, nataliet9, pulseelevated and Ori for reviewing!_ _It's wonderful to wake up to, let me tell you._

3/16/12: Just edited some typos. Move along!

* * *

Sherlock walked composedly up the stairs. If his home was being intruded, he might as well deal with it in a dignified manner. He reached the fifth floor and stopped at the top of the flight.

His door, _5A, _was slightly open.

Whoever his "sister" was, she had already shown herself inside without the aid of a key.

Allowing himself to gather his thoughts, Sherlock scanned through all of his information. She was female. She supposedly knew him. She had the ability _and _the audacity to not only break into his room, but also to pick the lock to do so.

Sherlock looked again at his door, heavy-lidded. _Of course_.

He smoothed his hands over his coat, and walked towards _5A_. As he reached for the doorknob, he could already smell it – iris and vanilla and a sharp mix of other scents. It was a fragrance called _24 Faubourg _by Hermes. _One of the most expensive perfumes in the world._ The intruder had put it on right before she entered.

His last doubts fled. Sherlock lifted a hand to fix his hair and straighten his scarf slightly. He might as well look presentable for his guest. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She was facing away from him, gazing out the window. Her hair was up in a neat, modest bun, and she was wrapped in a stylish gray tweed coat. She'd dug her hands into her pockets, unaccustomed to the frigidity of the unheated room. Her black pumps had made imprints into the ratty carpet of the apartment with every step she made.

On either side of her was a large leather traveling suitcase. Judging by her appearance she'd traveled a long, tiring distance, but by car.

"Miss Adler," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," she answered, slyly retaliating with her lack of formality. Miss Adler turned her head and smiled. Her face was free of makeup save for her deep red lips. Her eyes glowed blue and devilish. Whatever weight and color she'd lost back in Karachi, she'd gained back gracefully. There was a natural blush to her cheeks. She glowed with life in all the ways Sherlock did not.

She was beautiful, as always. She was unwelcome, as always.

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock, flatly.

"I'm admiring the view." She turned to look back out the window and crossed her arms, sighing. She was wearing black leather gloves. "It's oddly stunning for a city bay."

Sherlock stepped into the apartment and held the door open for her. "Please leave."

Irene turned around and raised an eyebrow. "So soon? But I've just arrived. What kind of hospitality is this to show to your '_sister_'?"

Sherlock didn't move an inch. "Please. Leave."

Instead, the Woman took a seat in the sole chair of the apartment, all the while keeping her sweet smile on. "Wouldn't you like to know how I found you?"

Sherlock shifted his gaze to her, slightly less harsh. It was true. He was incredibly curious about how she'd found him here. His brain was aching for a challenge, an exercise. Slowly he closed the door, let go of the doorknob, and faced her completely, still in his coat and scarf.

"Alright, Miss Adler," he said, still guarded. "Let me guess."

"Oh, no, no, no, not yet," the Woman lifted a slender finger and wagged it as if she were playing a role in her work. "I won't hear any of your theories. I won't tell you if you're right or wrong. That will have to wait." Sherlock felt suddenly irritated, but he kept his expression stoic. The pair stood their places for a moment, simply staring at the other calmly.

In honesty, Sherlock wasn't all that calm within. His mind was racing, searching for explanations, trying to answer his question of how she'd managed to track him down. It was brilliant to _think _again. He felt obligated to thank Irene Adler for giving that back to him.

"Answer for me this, at least," he finally said to break the icy silence. "_Why_?"

Irene smiled a little wider. He could tell she'd been waiting for that word. She crossed her legs and allowed a luxurious view of half her right thigh. She took the leather glove of her left hand by its index finger and pulled it off, nice and slow. He could tell that _she _could tell that he'd been very bored, and had decided to put on a small show for him to watch. He watched without expression, unimpressed.

"I'm dead, and you're dead," Irene replied as she slipped off the glove on her right hand. "I supposed we could have our own little… support system."

"I don't need a '_support system'_," hissed Sherlock. "Let alone a support system that may very well reveal my whereabouts to my enemies."

Irene was inspecting his pile of shirts under his desk, seemingly paying his scathing remarks no mind. "What a poor selection. Perhaps I'll buy you a few more this afternoon."

"Did you track where Mycroft was sending through the post office?" Sherlock suddenly had to ask. "Did you find that he was sending money to Montpellier, figured out that it was me living here, and tracked down the address?"

"Oh, Sherlock," sighed Irene. She was still ignoring his every word. "I never was able to thank you for saving me, back in Karachi."

"No, of course not," Sherlock scowled, his hard drive rolling back to the memory of that night. "I told you to run, and you did. I took care of the mess behind you. I'd planned it so we would never have to cross paths again. You would have been safe."

"You did a fantastic job." Irene gestured to herself grandly, showing that, yes, she was very much alive and safe. "And I thank you for that. The only bit I didn't like about your plan was the 'never have to cross paths again' portion. Why not, Sherlock? You're not thinking of saving me first, then suddenly abandoning me? Won't you let me stay here with you, if only for a little while?"

He knew she would avoid all of his questions. She was dodging them like a quick cat would a broom. That was so naturally and infuriatingly_ her_. He whirled around and opened the door. "If you're staying here, then I'm leaving."

"Sherlock-" he heard her voice start, but he'd gone through the door before he could listen to any more of it. He threw his hands into his pockets stomped off towards the stairs, readying himself to take a walk – a very, very long walk – whatever was long enough to make her grow tired of waiting and leave him in peace.

As he left his doorway, he caught again that faint scent of iris and vanilla. _She'd put on that scent just for me, _he scoffed in his head. It was an odd thought, though, and he paused for a short moment just to think it again, in a softer way. _She'd put on that scent just for me_.

His hand in his pocket fumbled for his old, stained scarf and pulled it out. He stared at the blood marked on it, and remembered that day.

Sherlock had lost everything. Maybe, in this part of the world so far away from the friends and comforts he knew, he would allow himself at least a _little _something from his past? Even if that little something was a Woman whose supposed love for him actually made her a tiny bit dangerous?

Standing in the middle of the dim, musty hallway, Sherlock suddenly wondered if her "sentiment" for him was still the same.

Some indescribable force propelled him back towards _5A_. He pulled open the door – in his rush to leave he luckily hadn't locked it closed – stopped once more in his tracks, and stared.

Miss Irene Adler had opened one of her expensive-looking suitcases and was now neatly laying her clothes beside Sherlock's own stacks of tops and pants. She was on her knees, and had kicked off her heels for a more comfortable position. She didn't seem to notice his re-entrance.

"What," asked Sherlock, sharply. "…do you think you are doing?"

She turned to face him once again and blinked, eyes wide and bright. "Why, I'm moving in. I won't be a burden. Don't worry. I brought money with me to help you with rent, and plenty of it. I promise to stay out of the way when you need me to, and to keep you company when you're lonely, but judging from what's happened so far this visit you won't feel that way very much."

"Irene-" Sherlock caught himself. "_Miss Adler_, you _cannot _stay with me."

"_Sherlock_," Irene retaliated, her gaze suddenly icy. "_Yes I_ _can_."

He couldn't restrain himself. Sherlock matched over to her, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to face up at him. "What makes you think that?" he snarled. "What makes you think you can disturb me here?"

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed, pulling her arm roughly out of his grasp. "You've no need to suspect me of anything. Moriarty's people do _not _know I'm alive, I can assure you. I no longer work for them." Something made her hesitate. The glow in her eyes dimmed. "I'm… on the run again. I'm sorry, darling. I've ruined everything you've done for me in Karachi."

Sherlock's hand dropped from its position. It dangled as he stared at her, bewildered. She continued, "I stayed away from England for a number of months, but then I missed it too much. I moved back in when I thought it was safe, under a new name. I suppose I wasn't careful enough. They found out I was still alive and they're after me again… I like this spot you've chosen. They're likely to search the rural areas, the countryside for hideaways, but you found a nice quiet place in a city. How _smart _of you, Sherlock."

She was trying to distract him through flattery. Obviously it wasn't working. He narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think I'll help you?"

Irene looked to the floor for a moment, and looked back up at him. Some unidentifiable emotion wavered behind her wide eyes. She had a knack for being unreadable when she needed to be. "Well, you did last time, didn't you?"

Sherlock lingered over her for a long, long time, and then stepped away and sat on his bed, staring at the wall. "Two weeks. That's all I'll permit you. You have two weeks to arrange for another place to hide. After that, you _leave_."

That glowing smile returned to Irene's face. She got to her feet, bent over and planted a quick kiss in Sherlock's cheek. He jerked away slightly, having no more charity to give her an appropriate response to such an action.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said sweetly. She dipped her feet back into her black pumps. "You look so weak and pale and terrible. I'll go out and buy something, and then we can have dinner." She smirked with triumph when his eyes darted up to her, suspicious. "_Real _dinner. Don't be so excited, love."

* * *

The next several hours were strange and horrible. Irene returned much later, in the evening, with some take-out from a "nice Italian restaurant two streets away": a plate of pasta Bolognese that he ate only a forkful of. She made him some tea with one of the expensive brands she'd stashed away from her last time in England, though she kept quiet about when exactly that was. They smelled of London and of home. Sherlock couldn't help but finish his own, but he made sure to do it slowly so as to not give her the pride of seeing him crumble just for a cup of tea.

He allowed her to take her shower first. When she stepped out, she had her wet, tangled hair down and a silky black bathrobe that wasn't very well-tied, though he figured that was intentional. He paid her little mind and went in to take his own shower. It still smelled of her shampoo. Sherlock turned the water to its hottest and let his physical and mental exhaustion wash away.

When he came out in his blue pajamas, she was already lying in the narrow, one-person bed, her arm propped up to let her head rest on a hand, her silk robe practically dripping from her legs and shoulders.

"Do you intend for me to sleep on the floor?" he asked coldly.

Irene laughed sultrily. She moved to one side of the bed and patted the tiny space beside her. He didn't move, and Irene rolled her eyes. "I won't _do _anything to you, darling. Come, we both need a comfortable bed tonight. Come here."

It was true. Without the warm blanket that the modest little bed provided him, Sherlock would spend the entire night shivering on the rough carpet. Slowly he walked to the bed, lifted the soft white blanket and settled in, facing the wall. There was so little space for the two of them that he could almost feel Irene's face in his hair, her soft breath finding its way through and tickling his skin.

"Good night, Miss Adler," he said flatly, closing his eyes.

"Good night, Sherlock."

For a long time, Sherlock said nothing, and he spent the next hour pretending to be asleep.

For the entirety of that hour, he could feel Irene Adler's fingers resting on his back, stroking, touching lightly and tentatively.

After that, she finally gave up, and he heard her roll her body to face the other wall.

He suddenly felt cold, and alone.


	3. You Need Me

_A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks again to the new subscribers and reviewers, and of course to those who have added this to their favorites._ _I had a problem with my computer so this is being posted a day late. _

_Also, just a warning that chapters will get quite a bit longer after this one._

_By the way, if anyone out there has Irene/Sherlock fics of their own, please don't hesitate to tell me about them because I am itching to add more to my collection. Something about their complicated, smart relationship attracts me and it can make for some really interesting plots._

_Anyway, I'll stop with any semblance of intelligent communication. On to wacky roommate hijinks._

* * *

Sherlock woke up to his guest destroying and rearranging his stacks of neatly folded clothes.

Groggily he lifted his head from the pillow. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

"Finding something that matches with _these _pants," replied Irene, not taking her eyes off from her work. She herself was wearing a smooth and stylish dress in dark rich blue, and over that a crisp white coat. Her hair was down (without a mirror in the bathroom it had probably been hard to style it) but it fell in thick, voluminous waves. She knit her brows. "What boring colors, all of these…"

"I arranged those shirts in a _specific _order-"

"This will have to do." Irene lifted a clean gray button-down shirt from the mess on the floor she'd created. With her free hand she got the pair of pants she'd picked out for him and tossed them both onto the bed. "Well then, get dressed, darling. I intend for us to go out for breakfast."

"I don't want breakfast," Sherlock grumbled. He turned in his bed to face the other side. In truth he was starving; he'd barely eaten any dinner the previous night.

There was a silence in the room for some time, disturbed only by the boats crashing through the water outside. He waited for Irene to protest further, but he heard nothing. He stared at the empty space of the bed. The part of the mattress where she'd squeezed in beside him was still indented. Looking at its width and depth, he could tell she'd been tossing and turning all night long.

"Oh," her voice finally returned. "I'm sure you don't want breakfast… but I think I know _one _thing you might want."

A hand suddenly grasped him by his arm. Before he could react, Irene pulled him backwards and pressed his shoulder firmly to the bed so that she bent over him, their upper bodies parallel. One of his legs slipped off the sheets and began to dangle from the side.

She gazed into his eyes with a hard smile. He cursed his early-morning drowsiness for impairing his reaction time.

"Well, _what?_" he asked coldly. "What is it that I want?"

Irene didn't answer immediately. She kept her grip on his shoulder. She obviously enjoyed being the one with the upper hand _too _much. Slowly she lowered her face, until her pink lips nearly grazed his cheek, until the contour of her chest pressed against his. Her hair fell in coal-black waves over his neck and shoulders.

"Information," she whispered into his ear.

"What are you-" at first he narrowed his eyes, but he trailed off, and shifted his eyes to the ceiling in stunned silence as he realized what she meant.

"You miss England, don't you?" the Woman continued, making her voice softer, almost teasing. "You miss your home and your friends. What if I told you I checked up on them when I was still there? Scotland Yard. Mrs. Hudson. John. I know all about how they're doing. Wouldn't you like to know, Sherlock? Wouldn't you _want _that?"

The thought of home struck a dull pain deep within Sherlock, but he shook it off and barred it from showing on his face. He gently pushed Irene off and away from him, and sat up straight without a word.

"So," Irene said with a smirk. "Breakfast?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied brusquely. He stood up, gathered the clothes she'd thrown onto the bed for him, and nudged her out of the way to go into the bathroom.

Before entering, he paused, and peeked slightly at her over his shoulder.

"By the way, you might want to quit smoking. It's ruining your larynx."

He turned and took another step, but stopped again.

"And put something on underneath your dress, for God's sake."

He opened the bathroom door, stepped through, and locked it behind him.

* * *

The two exited the building side-by-side, with Irene's hands curled around one of Sherlock's arms in the most un-sibling-like fashion, prompting strange looks from the landlady as she watched them go past.

The morning was definitely warmer than the one before it: about twenty-three-point-nine degrees Celsius this time. Still, Sherlock walked out wrapped in his old coat and new maroon scarf, partly to make it easier to conceal his face, and partly to spite Irene by ruining the outfit she planned for him.

"The papers are still enamored with you," Irene began. "People are still writing out their theories. Their beliefs. On paper and online. You're a liar. You're real. Moriarty was an actor. On and on and on. You're a celebrity even past your death. I was actually a little jealous when I learned of it all."

"I wouldn't have been," Sherlock muttered. He was actually mildly annoyed that everyone was still going on about him. What would be truly excellent was if his case was forgotten, allowing him to quietly return to London without drawing attention.

They ambled down the narrow street, heading to some "gorgeous classic café" Irene wanted to try.

"Scotland Yard is the same as it always was," she went on, looking straight ahead. "Always busy. Much slower and much more incompetent without your help, of course. I hear most of them believe in the fraud theory about you, save for maybe one or two."

Sherlock kept quiet, but _Lestrade _was the first name to enter his mind. He didn't reckon there was anyone else.

They reached the café and were seated outside. Irene ordered a croissant and he ordered a baguette with jam. Despite Irene mentioning that she would pay for it all, he didn't relax to order anything else.

"Mrs. Hudson is alive and healthy, I'm sure you're glad to hear that," Irene said as she lifted her coffee to blow it gently. "Her hip's gotten worse but she manages. She goes out quite often."

"What about John?" asked Sherlock.

Irene smiled. "I knew you'd be anxious to hear about him. He's fine too. But, well… he's really very depressed. Still lives in 221B, did you know? He refuses to leave. That's a loyal best friend you've got."

"Yes…" Sherlock said softly. It really had stung to abandon John so suddenly, but what choice did he have? "I just… hope he's safe."

"Yes, well," Irene paused to take a sip from her coffee. "I'm sure he'll accept sooner or later that you're not going back."

"I _am _going back," Sherlock said suddenly.

Irene looked up from her cup and stared at him, genuinely taken by surprise. "You are?" she asked. "Is that your plan?"

"What about Mycroft?" he asked, changing the topic. He'd forgotten to inquire about his brother, but that was mostly because he assumed that he was perfectly fine since he hadn't stopped sending money.

Irene frowned slightly, thinking for a while. "He's got bloody heavy security. I don't know a thing about how he's doing."

"…So you didn't find me through him."

Something twinkled in Irene's eyes. She liked knowing something that he didn't. "I won't answer that."

"Then how_ did_ you find me?" Sherlock asked her for the second time. "Were you in London when I faked my death, or did you hear about it abroad?"

"I told you, I won't answer any of that any time soon," she grinned, pulled a bill from her purse, and placed it on the table. She extended her hand, as if expecting to be assisted. "Now, take me out for a nice walk."

"You do enjoy treating me like a puppy that worships you, don't you," Sherlock said icily.

"I just treated you to breakfast," she responded without missing a beat. She kept her hand out.

"I could've paid for breakfast."

"No, you couldn't," Irene smiled slyly. "You spent it on that scarf."

He swore if they hadn't been surrounded by people he would have lunged at her and strangled her there and then. But he wouldn't let her have the last word. He couldn't. "I could have paid for breakfast had you not _imposed _yourself on me like a parasite."

It was simply bad luck that they were sitting outside. Every other table had someone lighting a cigarette. The air was warm and filled with smoke.

Irene leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table. "Oh, I'm hardly a parasite, darling," she said, her voice low and hard. "Don't you remember? I'm here to be your support system. You need me to help pay for a place to live. You need me for information. You need _me._"

The cigarette smoke reached their table, rich and thick. Sherlock leaned forward as well, to meet her gaze but also to avoid inhaling the smoke. "I _don't _need you. I never have needed you."

"Sherlock," said Irene. She no longer sounded like she was playing with him. "You're all alone in a foreign country, just as I had been, in Pakistan. You helped me, so why can't I help you?"

He was going to reply, but suddenly it was there – the cigarette smoke entered his lungs and entered _him_. It was heavy and rich and _God he could really use a cigarette right now _but he knew he couldn't. He blinked the sting away from his eyes.

"Sherlock? Are you alright? Is it the-"

"Why don't you stop acting so _bloody concerned_," he snapped. Sherlock stood up, dug his hands into his pockets and walked briskly across the street, away from the smoke and away from _her_.

"Sherlock!" he heard the scraping of a chair against pavement. He heard the clacking of a woman's heels. She was going after him. He increased his pace.

"Sherlo- _ugh!" _He suddenly heard her crash into another person with a thud. Instantly Sherlock whirled around.

She had bumped into a French police officer reading the newspaper. "_Excusez-moi, monsieur_," came her quick apology as she regained her balance. She made her way to Sherlock and took his arm.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. Any other person who had been bumped into would have looked away after the apology, but the police officer continued to stare at Irene, his eyes narrow.

Correction. He was staring at _Sherlock_.

Sherlock's eyes moved from the officer to the page he had open in his newspaper.

It was _his _face. It was the picture of him in his hat that the press had taken of him so long ago, printed large in black and white in the upper right corner of the paper.

At lightning speed he scanned the article, trying hard to catch words despite the distance between them. He picked up _fraude _and _Britannique _and _mort_. _Fraud _and _British _and _Dead._

He had no time. Sherlock grabbed Irene's hand and broke into a run.

She fell forward clumsily, but he didn't pause to give her a rest. Still grasping her hand, he turned and ran down the street as fast as he could, navigating his way through the sea of strangers, dodging and ducking. He couldn't afford for them to crash into someone, in case it slowed them down.

He heard a man's loud voice yelling something in their direction. He couldn't make it out amidst the other city noises, but he swore he heard _police_ and tugged at Irene's hand, urging her to go faster. _Police _was the same in English and French, and meant trouble for him all the same.

He didn't stop running even when both voice and siren had faded - he pulled Irene through streets and alleys, until they grew narrower and the ocean grew bigger. He didn't stop running until they were back at the inn by the bay.

The pair burst into the building, frightening the landlady – Sherlock greeted her with a rushed_ "Bonjour, madame_" - and they both hurried up the stairs.

* * *

Both stumbled into the apartment, gasping for breath. Sherlock let go of her wrist and slammed the door behind him, hard.

"What the hell did you think you were doing there?" he hissed. She was facing away from him, bent over and panting, with one hand gripping the side of the kitchen table. "Laying yourself out there, right in the way for the police? Neither of us is allowed to be here! We're both supposed to be _dead_!"

Irene twisted her body to stare up at him, her mouth open as she tried to catch her breath, and her eyes wide. "But-"

"You're supposed to be helping me, Irene. What are you doing? Yelling out names and crashing into people. You're gathering attention! What are you _doing_ here, Irene? What?"

"Stop," she managed to say, her voice breaking.

He couldn't stop. The adrenaline from escaping the police officer and running through the streets of Montpellier had put him and his mind on an incredible rush. He advanced towards her. "You say you're on the run again but for how long, I wonder? You arrived neat and tidy with two suitcases. A person in a hurry would have just grabbed for one. And a person in a hurry certainly _wouldn't _arrive with freshly manicured nails and hair up in a bun. Where did you hide out before decide to bother me here? Paris, I assume, with how you naturally apologized to that police officer in French without a stutter, and since you love romantic cities. Paris suits you."

"Sherlock-"

"So how long did it take for you to decide to make the move to Montpellier? Did the British government figure it out and find you in Paris? You found out they were coming and you needed to escape, but flying was too dangerous. You needed somewhere easy and quick and within the country. So, of course, why not darling Sherlock by the sea, who's _lonely _and needs you and your help, who needs you _so badly_-"

Irene grasped him on either side of his face, and her lips came crashing to meet his.

Sherlock, stunned, stumbled slightly backwards, but quickly held her by the waist to regain his balance.

She kissed him, hard, and wouldn't let go. They stood there, still dressed for outdoors, pressed against each other.

When the shock faded and he had processed fully what she'd just done, Sherlock pushed her away gently, still speechless.

Irene's hands slipped down from his face to his shoulders. Her eyes were lowered, but the thought in them was unmistakable. She was scolding herself for allowing impulse complete control of her actions.

"Irene…" Sherlock began. He struggled to form the question he was trying to ask. "…what was that for?"

She looked up at him to meet his eyes.

"Sherlock… you're always trying to figure things out. You want to know everything because you're too proud not to."

He'd been called out on his bluntness and his pride countless times before. John did it; Lestrade did it; sometimes even people he'd just met did it. "I'm not going to apologize for that. I'm going to keep trying to find out what you were doing before you got here."

"Of course you are," Irene nodded. She licked her lips slightly. It reminded Sherlock of their haphazard kiss, and he felt an odd twinge in his nerves.

"What…" he swallowed. "…do you mean by that?"

"You're going to keep trying…" a sparkle appeared in her eyes and her lips quirked up into something of a smug smile. "…because _you're still wrong_."


	4. The Starving Artist

_A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry that this one took a little long. I am sure that the ending makes up for it... nicely._

_Just a quick note - a reviewer was kind enough to point out that in my first chapter I accidentally made it sound like Moriarty was still alive, when I just meant to make it sound like Sherlock was being paranoid! That was careless writing on my part, and I apologize. Thank you, reviewer, you know who you are! It's all fixed now! (So don't go looking for it. [angry face]).  
_

_First warning for everyone now that hot sexy times are ahead. Except not really. Which leads me to my second warning and it's for the hot sexy times lovers; the climactic event itself will never be described in detail, so don't keep your hopes up. But there will be plenty of _non-_climactic things described, if you catch my drift._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

They spent the rest of the morning biding their time in the apartment, neither willing to go back out at the risk of being spotted. Irene unpacked some of her belongings, decorating the bathroom sink and shower with products and putting her own stacks of clothes next to Sherlock's, while the man himself sat at the kitchen table with a pencil and sheets of old pages that he'd torn from the newspapers he could get his hands on.

Neither of them spoke to each other for hours. After their kiss, Sherlock had coldly let her go and retreated to his chair, not uttering a word. He'd expected her to gripe about it, but she said nothing, probably too proud to show any signs of protest.

After a sorry lunch of bread with bread and a side of bread, Irene had announced that she was going back outside to buy some supplies. If they were to seal themselves inside the room overnight, she said, they might as well have the right amount of food for it.

She'd been gone for two hours now or so, and he was still in his spot with his pencil and papers. He used the ashtray as a paperweight, though glancing at it only made him feel uncomfortable.

The sound of a sudden, hard splash of water filtered through the window. Judging from volume and apparent impact, a man had probably fallen into the sea by accident. Maybe he was drunk; maybe he wasn't paying attention. In any case, his friends found it hilarious. Their guttural laughter echoed through into his room. He scribbled an accurately-proportioned image of the fat stupid police officer.

It had been four months since his death in London. Why had it suddenly appeared in French papers? Not only was it too long ago to be considered _news_, but why would France care? Maybe it had just been a trivia article, filler for the very back of the classifieds. But no, filler didn't tend to have large photos or take up a third of a page. Something was wrong. And "Sherlock" and "wrong" was a terrible pair.

"What are you doing?" Irene's voice sliced through the ringing silence and made his mind come crashing down. Sherlock turned and saw her standing there at the door, clutching two plastic bags in both her hands. She held a designer handbag under her arm.

"We're not safe here any longer," he managed to say. "You've wasted your energy unpacking. Put everything back in your suitcases and we'll leave tonight. I'm sure there's some boat worker at the bay who'd be willing to bring us to Italy. Maybe even-"

"Oh, don't worry about where to go," she interrupted him, strangely calm. She shut the door behind her with a kick and dropped the plastic bags to the floor. "I've got just the place to run to."

Sherlock frowned. "Really?" he said skeptically. "Where?"

"I won't tell you yet," she smiled. _There she goes again. She loves knowing more than me. _"But I promise you, I sorted it out all on my own. We can go by tomorrow." She shrugged off her white coat, folded it and set it on the kitchen counter.

"Why won't you tell me?" Sherlock asked, eyeing her distrustfully.

"Because I'd like your poor brilliant mind to worry about one less thing," she pouted as she slunk forward and lightly rolled Sherlock's right sleeve up to his elbow, to match his left. In his deep thought he hadn't realized that it had gone back down his forearm.

"I can tell it's somewhere close, perhaps within the country," he started. "If you say 'sorted it out' that calmly then it didn't take more than a phone call. Someone you know can drive in overnight and pick us up by the morning, maybe even earlier, but you'd like to relax for now and take the night to refresh yourself. Where is it? Orleans? Tours?"

"What are you doing?" she ignored his questions, gently brushing him aside so she could pick up a piece of paper. "Isn't this… the policeman we bumped into to?"

"The policeman _you _bumped into," he corrected flatly. "Is it in Amiens?"

"It's quite good," she tilted the paper left and then right. "I didn't know you were an artist."

"I'm not," he said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. "It's something I do to help me think. Is it Calais?"

He watched her flip through the sheets of torn newspaper, looking at what he'd sketched – a view of his room from the door; a part of the bay; the landlady; the beginnings of a portrait of John, but half-erased. "Really?" she cooed. "My cold, analytical detective gets his fuel from pretty little sketches?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's the only thing I can do _here_. In London I had cases. And my violin. And… and smoking. You're taking us out of the country, aren't you?"

The expression on her face twitched faintly, as if he had unexpectedly said something right. So it _was _out of the country. But that only widened the range of possible locations.

Irene suddenly broke into a devilish grin. "Really? Well, then, I've got a gift for my starving artist." She stuck the papers back under the ashtray and turned to pull something out of one of the plastic bags.

It took Sherlock a split-second to realize what she had in her hand. A small, white, rectangular box with a thick black _Marlboro _printed across it. With one sharp red nail, Irene cut through its cellophane wrap, and slipped it off slowly, as if trying to tease him.

Irene turned back to him with a cigarette already between her lips, smirking. Sherlock simply looked at her. "You intend to tempt me with a cigarette."

The Woman took a stick from the box and held it out to him. "Sherlock, darling, you're a fugitive hiding out in France by the sea. Live a little."

Of course, accompanied with his sense, Sherlock didn't want to take it. But the physical, the physiological part of him, the maddening aspect of his mind that he couldn't control, was greedy and hungry and very much stimulated by the sight of it. "No thank you," he forced out, before he could make any reckless decisions.

Irene only grinned wider. _Stupid decision_, Sherlock told himself, _she's only going to play with you even more._ She reached for her white coat, and pulled a lighter out of one of its pockets.

The spark sputtered and sprang alive. She lifted it to her cigarette, and soon enough, smoke glided into the air, soft and faint but very much present. It reached Sherlock, _reached _him in every sense of the word. It smelled like home. It smelled like just what he needed.

Irene seemed to notice how he was a little less relaxed. She was obviously _relishing _it.

She sat neatly on his lap, with their eyes locked, and took the cigarette from her mouth. She exhaled; he inhaled. Perfect, horrible timing. His mind and his lungs roared for more.

"Are you taking us to Spain?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the scent. "Or Italy?"

Irene took another drag and exhaled the smoke along the side of his neck. "Not telling you," she replied. She slipped her hand into his and smiled at him.

Her pupils were dilated. He put his fingers on her wrist. Her pulse was through the roof.

"You haven't changed," Sherlock said bemusedly.

There was a spark in her eyes. She knew what he meant. "Neither have you."

"What do you mean-" he paused as he inhaled some smoke, and his head felt infinitely lighter, "-by that?"

"You haven't bothered to push me off of you," she whispered into his ear, and with the cigarette held between her middle and index fingers, she deftly slipped it in between his lips. "…Just like last time."

The inside of Sherlock turned warm as the smoke filled him. His mind raced. It felt stupid and irresponsible and _good_ to smoke again. His lungs burned but he tried his best not to show it. Seconds later she took the cigarette away and he exhaled it slowly, hungrily, and Irene, inches away from his face, breathed it in. There was the faint scent of menthol but it faded, as if his sense of smell was disappearing. There was something _louder_ than that inside him, in the part of his lap Irene was sitting on, in the parts of his face that she'd touched. It had started as ripples and now they were waves.

Usually, smoking helped him think, but right now it was betraying him in every single way.

"Are we going… to Germany?" he managed to say as she began to kiss his jaw line. "Or… Belgium?"

"Oh, Sherlock, darling," her lips murmured against his Adam's apple. "Shut up."

He did.

Now Irene was straddling him in the chair, her fingers tangled through his hair and her mouth roaming about his neck and face. With what movement he was capable of he smashed the cigarette into the ashtray on the table. It was too late now; whatever reason Sherlock might have had to avoid situations like this were drowned out by cigarette smoke and his own stupid, _stupid _physical need.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed her hard against him. With skin against skin Sherlock only realized now how hard and fast his heart was beating. Against Irene's chest their hearts beat at frenzied, mismatched paces, as if they were racing.

His mouth found Irene's, in a kiss with a passion and intensity twice as much as the one early that morning. He sucked on her bottom lip, and she responded with this weird and wonderful whimper of approval that Sherlock had never heard before in his life.

Her hands yanked the tucked in part of his shirt from out of his pants. Good _lord _she was fast. And he was just slow and nervous and awkward. Sherlock slowly realized what trap he'd been lured into. Here was _one _thing she was good at – and _infinitely _better at than him – and she was going to prove just how outstanding she was in her field. It would be a battle of egos, and they were going to enjoy it, too.

Irene's fingers found the naked skin from where she'd pulled at his clothes, and their touch sent waves up and down the inside of him. It was new and it was dangerous. It was like the relief a thousand cigarettes would've given him… if he were still craving for them by that point.

"There he is," she purred with her lips and teeth crushed against his, her fingers exploring its new territory under his shirt.

The next ten seconds were a blind stumbling towards the one-person bed. Irene tripped out of her heels, but Sherlock caught hold of her before she could fall as he kicked off his own shoes, his lips still desperately claiming the parts of her skin he could reach. He was responding now to his most animal instincts and he simply hated how his mind hadn't roped him back in to his cold, unfeeling persona. Or maybe he didn't hate it.

Sherlock found himself lying on the bed, with Irene directly on top of him. She kissed him again and her tongue found its way to his. He made some noises he wasn't proud of. His hands, holding either side of her waist, eased her down so that her weight pressed against him magnificently.

He glued his eyes shut and, blind, fumbled for the zipper on the back of her dress. He tugged it down the length of her back, and noted distractedly that she hadn't fulfilled his request earlier that day to put some underwear on.

Irene broke their kiss to smile at him playfully, though she was panting as hard as he was. The straps of her dress slipped off her shoulders, until half of her was in plain view.

"Well, isn't this so much like our first meeting?" she whispered.

"Maybe…" replied Sherlock with a little less breath to spare. "…Though… I couldn't truly _read _you then… it's a little easier now in a situation like… _this_."

Irene laughed and kissed the side of his mouth. "Do you know why I think you couldn't read me? I reckon you'd never even seen a woman's bare body before that."

"_Yes I have_," he protested, though the immature amount of nervousness in his voice made him feel embarrassed.

She sighed a bit. "Yes, love, but they were dead and on metal tables. Not very sexy, I would guess. But what about the body of a woman who's responding to your every touch, who's been hot and keen _all day_…"

Her words alone made the lower part of his abdomen go weak with need. He realized that while they were speaking, she'd already managed to smoothly unbutton his shirt without a trouble. Bloody hell. She _was _good.

"…wouldn't _that _be much, _much _more interesting to study?" Her eyes sparkled.

Sherlock decided that words weren't necessary to answer that. He pulled her down by her bare shoulders to kiss her again. She moaned and grinded herself against him, and a certain movement of her hips against a part of his anatomy caused him to mutter a "_fuck" _that surprised the both of them (though everything resumed its normal course immediately after).

He'd familiarized himself with every kissable part of her neck when Irene kicked off the rest of her dress, and pulling his shirt off his shoulders, gasped, "Get your trousers _off_."

"Alread-"

"Sherlock _for the love of god_," and she bit his shoulder.

No more complaints here.


	5. Part of the Plan

_A/N: Hello everyone! This took longer to write than I expected, and I threw in some stuff there that I didn't plan to add until later. But I couldn't be happier with the final thing!_

BTW I will be on vacation this week, so the next update will probably be May 7 or later. Hope that's cool! Thanks again so much to everyone who reviewed, alerted or favourited! You guys make me happy :)

* * *

Damn.

Well, damn.

Sherlock found himself with his face nestled into Irene's neck, and his arm thrown over her waist. Her arm rested limply over his shoulder, while the other cushioned his head. She'd gone to sleep playing with his hair, and he'd gone to sleep kissing her collarbone.

Consciousness slammed him back into reality with full force, and his head suddenly filled with torrents of words of anger and shame. _You've let your body get the better of you. You've let _sentiment _get the better of you._

He reasoned with himself, as he lay there, that they only winded up like this because Irene had found his weak spot and exploited it, like she loved to do. But saying that meant admitting defeat. And that was what Irene did best – playing a game with him and then having him realize too late that he lost. And today he was the loser once again.

Sherlock untangled himself from her arms. He found his boxers, and then his pants, and pulled them on. His gray shirt was trapped beneath Irene's sleeping body. He decided not to take it in case she woke up. He'd have to face her then, and speak to her, something he did not want to do right now.

Shaking off his sleep, Sherlock walked to the kitchen table. He saw the chair he'd sat in a few hours before, lying on the floor on its side. He surmised that in their rush towards the bed he'd toppled it over while standing up and hadn't noticed. Sherlock picked it up, walked over to the window, and set it down quietly to face the port. There wasn't much activity outside to watch, so he settled for the stars.

The physiological desire for sex was something Sherlock had learned long before to ignore, and even to convince himself that he didn't possess. Maybe, for a while, that was true. Certainly, right now, it wasn't.

As he sat there, Sherlock suddenly thought of home, of Baker Street, even though he couldn't really call it home anymore. He would have been content to have just stayed there, to have none of this ever happen. And heaven knows he would have been content had he never slept with Irene Adler. _Perfectly_ content. _Immeasurably content_, he thought to himself for good measure.

It made him wonder what Irene felt about all of this. Why had she bothered to come to Montpellier to stay with him? Solely to be closer to him? Obviously not. If there was anyone who was more a master of hidden agendas than he was, it was Irene. She had come here for _something_.

_And_, Sherlock theorized_, she'd slept with me to get it._

* * *

When Irene woke up, she felt devastatingly cold.

She groaned softly and curled up in the bed, hunting for warmth. She found it in the pillow, in the sheets. She found it in the empty space beside her.

Irene opened her eyes and found herself looking at the bare wall of the apartment. The light was soft and dim. It couldn't have been anywhere past eight in the evening. It was supposedly dinner time, but she didn't feel very hungry at all.

A lightning-speed recollection of what had happened just a few hours ago flickered in her head, and she suddenly realized that she wasn't wrapped around a sweat-glazed Sherlock like she last remembered. Irene twisted her neck to look to the other side.

There he was.

He'd moved the sole chair of the room from the kitchen table to just in front of the window. He sat there, silent, unmoving, staring out at the bay, one hand on the armrest and the other covering his mouth and chin, as if he were thinking. His hair was still a mess from their little incident. The moonlight glowed on his skin and in his eyes.

He'd put back on his trousers, maybe since it was rather cold, and Irene wondered why he hadn't put his shirt back on as well. Then she realized she was lying right on top of it, and he probably had left it alone so as not to disturb her sleep. She pulled it on as she sat up. It was warm and smelled just like him, though the sleeves fell past her fingers. She rolled them up to her forearms.

"Still hungry?" Irene whispered as she came up to stand behind him. She ran a hand affectionately through his hair, while the other stroked one of his shoulders. He didn't turn to look at her.

"No… not after that, no." In the evening his voice sounded deeper, yet softer.

Irene laughed a little. She moved her hands lower so they rested on the skin of his chest. She could feel him breathing. "Did you… like it?"

Sherlock continued gazing out the window, not responding. She didn't really expect an answer anyway.

"I was wondering, Sherlock," said Irene, thinking up another question he might reply to. "When I first arrived, how long did it take you to find out it was me?"

"Top of the stairs," he said. He touched her hand lightly. "Only you could have possessed the resources to reach me. And… I smelled your perfume." He lifted her fingers gently, brushing his lips against them as if trying to remember how they felt, and it made her shiver. "It was the same one you wore when you broke into 221B."

Irene smiled. "I put it on_ just_ for you," she cooed. She felt Sherlock freeze for a bit, as if she'd said something strange.

They stayed there in silence for a long time, watching the waves outside rise then die.

Irene tried to process the immensity of what had just happened. She'd finally succeeded in catching the one man out of her reach, and while she knew that a tiny part of her had wanted that badly to happen, she also knew that it wasn't part of the plan. Not now, at least.

"I'd like to know… was that _really _your first?"

Sherlock said nothing for a moment. She figured it would wound his pride a little to answer that question. "…Yes."

Extra points. She beamed to herself.

Sherlock brought her fingers away from his lips, and she wove them in with his. "How did you find me?"

Irene had to laugh; she was genuinely surprised that he would ask such a thing. "Well, not bad at all for a first time. I'll have to teach you to be a little less _selfish _though, but believe me when I say that in bed that's not an entirely bad thing-"

"Irene, that's not what I meant," he interrupted her. "How did you _find _me?"

Her smile faded when she realized what he was talking about. Even after all this time, he was still consumed by his curiosity. He still didn't completely trust her.

Irene put her hand gently against his chest to feel his heartbeat, and stroked his hair, savoring what she could before losing everything.

"Could you maybe…" Irene began, trying to think of a way to buy more time. "…wait until tomorrow? And _then _I'll tell you. I promise."

She braced herself for his reaction. As predicted, Sherlock grew tense under her hands, and without a word he nudged them away as he stood up from the chair.

"What are you doing?" Irene asked, managing to restrain her discontentment from showing in her voice. It came out flat and casual, like she'd hoped.

Sherlock walked to the bathroom door and pulled it open. "Shower," he answered simply.

As he stepped in and closed the door behind him, Irene called out, "Tomorrow, I promise, darling. I'll tell you how I found you."

_The truth is_… she thought to herself, swallowing hard. _…I didn't._

* * *

**_Five days earlier_**

* * *

"You do have quite the talent for escaping death, don't you, Miss Adler?"

She gripped the sides of her chair, glaring at him through the disheveled hair that fell from her bun. She wore a salmon pink cocktail dress, from a Parisian boutique, though now it was dirty and wrinkled at parts. One of her shoes had had the heel broken off from it. The other shoe was missing.

Irene didn't say a word.

The man standing in front of her shrugged his shoulders, and continued to pace in front of her. "You don't have to be so angry with me. The ruined outfit isn't my fault, Miss. You fought quite a bit when my men got to you. Certainly nothing they were prepared for."

Irene was flanked by two men in black suits, both with their own wounds to show from the scuffle they had all the way back in France. Their boss leaned against a large mahogany desk.

"Let me go," Irene said bitingly.

"You _do _realize that faking one's death and assuming a false identity is a crime," the man replied, scowling at her. "_Renee Daril _is still _Irene Adler _to us, all the same."

"I was staying in Paris," hissed Irene. "Regardless of my name I was _not _under the power of the British police force! You had no right breaking into my home!"

"Two countries can agree to have a person of interest arrested if he escapes to another state," he deadpanned.

"Yes, they can have agreements," Irene said coldly. "They can agree to have _that _country's police force do the arresting, not to bloody send their own men to kidnap the person right out of her _flat_." She furiously showed the bruises on her arms to prove how roughly she'd been handled.

"My plan for you needn't bother the French police force."

"Then why did-" Irene stopped. She eyed the man standing before her suspiciously. "I'm not being _arrested_, am I, Mister Holmes?"

Some version of a smug smile appeared on Mycroft's face. He casually sipped a drink from a glass, before putting it back on his desk. "Would you like to be cleared of all charges, Miss Adler?"

"I wouldn't need your help to accomplish that, Mister Holmes."

"Yes, but with my help, we can make sure it's for good."

Irene raised an eyebrow. She leaned back against her chair. "I didn't imagine you for one who so readily abuses his power."

"Oh, I don't, believe me," Mycroft said, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. "But everyone in this world has their exceptions. This one's mine."

Irene stifled a laugh and folded her arms. "What, do you mean me? I'm flattered, Mister Holmes, but this kidnapping business has put me off a little."

Mycroft stopped smiling. "No, Miss Adler, you are not my 'exception'." He turned away, and Irene watched him gaze for a long time at a few sheets of paper lying around his desk. "My younger brother is."

Some emotion within Irene flickered. She hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes since that fateful day he'd saved her from Karachi so many months ago. And she hadn't thought of him since the day he died.

She remembered that part of her life with a dull pain in her stomach. It was just before she left for Paris, reading a cheap British tabloid while waiting for her plane in the airport. _SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS_. She spent the flight lost in thought and disbelief. Sherlock Holmes was certainly not a "fake genius", no. A fake genius would not be able to infiltrate a terrorist cell in Pakistan and save her from being beheaded right at the moment it was about to happen.

"Sherlock…" Irene began, staring at him. "…is dead."

Mycroft turned to look at her again, his expression grave. "Both you and I know that isn't true."

Of course. She couldn't believe that Sherlock was a fake genius, so of course the idea that he'd committed suicide would be preposterous as well. Irene couldn't keep her lips from twitching into a smile. She was suddenly a little excited, embarrassingly so.

"So how is he really," Irene asked in a teasing voice. "Mister Holmes?"

Mycroft paused. He nodded at his men to leave the office, which they did. He returned his gaze to Irene. "Sherlock is hiding out in the city of Montpellier in France."

_France_. To think she'd been that close to him without knowing it. "How did you find that out?"

"I didn't," Mycroft shook his head. "He told me from the beginning. I've been sending him money every month, though I secretly put a little less every time. I was hoping it would lure him back home."

"So very mature of you, Mister Holmes," Irene said, smirking.

"A person who changes her identity by using an anagram of her old name has no license to tease people about immaturity," Mycroft raised an eyebrow, referring to her _Renee Daril _alias.

"That was my way of teasing the sad excuse for a government in this country," Irene shrugged. "Though I do admit it was rather careless on my part."

"And so here you are," said Mycroft. "About to help me execute my plan."

"And what exactly is that plan, I might ask?"

Mycroft poured her a drink and handed it to her, which she reluctantly took. "You're to bring him back to London."

Irene looked at him, the surprise evident on her face. She took a sip before answering. "Why don't you do that yourself?"

Mycroft directed his eyes to the floor. "I know he's not going to listen to me. Besides, I'm needed here. An absence would draw more attention than I need. A government official suddenly disappearing, then returning with a fugitive who faked his death would look bad for both parties."

"What about John Watson?" Irene asked. "He's much closer to Sherlock than I am. And he probably knows about his whereabouts too, doesn't he?"

Mycroft looked into his glass. "Sherlock faked his death for John's protection." He noticed Irene's shocked expression. "I'll explain that to you later on. But before he left, Sherlock made me swear that I wouldn't tell John. He said that it was his burden to bear. It was something he needed to deal with himself. Distant as we are, I am still his brother, and I keep my word."

Irene sat there quietly for a moment, trying to absorb all of the new information. "But… why me?"

He put his glass back on the desk, and turned to her with a piercing stare. "You once charmed my brother into decoding a top-secret government message. You fooled him into believing you were dead. Trust me when I say that there are not a lot of people on this Earth who are able to outsmart Sherlock Holmes." He folded his arms. "That's what I need. That could bring my brother back."

"And how am I to 'bring him back', Mister Holmes?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I'll leave that up to you. Surely you've not spent all the magic you once used on him."

Irene thought for a while. "So, if I do go to Montpellier and convince him to return, I'm cleared of all charges. What else?"

The government official raised an eyebrow. "So the reward of _Sherlock _isn't enough for you?"

She shot him an icy glare, unimpressed by his attempt to tease. Mycroft turned and pulled a folder from a pile on his desk, and opened it. "You'll have a comfortable, spacious flat somewhere in east London. You'll have the name Juliet Toulson, plus a generous allowance for a year or so to help toss you back into the work force. All of the documents you need for your new life will be our handiwork."

Irene was quiet for a while, mulling the offer over in her head. Her eyes met Mycroft's. "All of this rule-breaking just to get your brother back?"

Mycroft closed the folder in his hands. "Yes."

"You do realize that, if he figures this out, he might never forgive you?" asked Irene. She relished finding the drama in things.

"Sherlock has not forgiven me for many things, Miss Adler," Mycroft replied flatly. "This hardly adds to the pile. I'm not doing this for his forgiveness."

"Then what for?" She crossed her legs and put on her most sympathetic face.

The Ice Man gave her a look worthy of his title. "I want him back because there is something that he owes _me_." He walked forward until he stood immediately in front of her. "Now, shall we dance, or not?"

Irene looked him up and down. She stood up, smoothed the front of her dress, tucked her hair away from her face, and reached out to shake his hand. "We shall."

"Excellent," said Mycroft. "Will a week suffice?"

"I can do it in two days."

He raised both his eyebrows, almost in begrudging admiration. "Very well, but what's your plan of action?"

Irene thought for a few seconds. "I'll need a willing actor, a way to contact a newspaper publication in Montpellier, and quite a bit of money."

"I'm sure we can arrange that," Mycroft nodded. "Once you're sure you've done it, you can send us your gloating call."

"Darling," Irene smiled her best smile, the one that teetered between sweetness and venom. "You'll hear my voice all the way from France."


	6. The Losing Side

_A/N: Oh gosh! There is no amount of blubbering and apologizing that could make up for how LATE this chapter is. I'm so very, very sorry! It was actually a pretty hard chapter to write. It stretched too long so I cut it in half; hopefully that means the next chapter won't take as long to finish!  
_

_I also want to take this time to profusely thank all of the loyal readers who have stuck with me. Thank you all so, so much for the views, reviews, alerts and favorites! It makes me very happy. :) (Very special shoutout to ****, who very kindly mentioned this story in her glorious fic, **Rome Is Burning**. One day I will dedicate something to you)  
_

_Without further ado, here is (half) the chapter that was supposed to be up on May frickin' 7._

* * *

It was another warm morning. Sherlock tossed the few articles of clothing he had into a plain, black travelling bag he kept under the bed.

He felt no sadness in his "goodbye" to this apartment; he was, after all, only saying goodbye to hours and hours of loneliness and boredom. He zipped his bag closed as Irene watched from the door, all ready in a sleeveless, knee-length black dress and tweed coat, the one she wore the day she arrived.

"I appreciate your lack of questions," she said brightly. Sherlock didn't turn to face her.

"Don't mistake it for trust," he replied. "The questions will come in due time." He stood up, clutching the bag in his left hand. "I just want to leave as soon as possible. There's nothing here I'm going to miss."

Irene pouted thoughtfully. "I don't know about that. I think I'm going to miss the bed."

Sherlock didn't react to her sly response. He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a thick roll of money: his savings from what Mycroft had been sending. Irene raised an eyebrow as he turned around and stuffed the bills deep into his coat pocket.

"Don't you want to keep that safe?" she asked. "In your bag?"

"It's for emergencies," he said. "We may have to run. Taking our bags with us would slow us down. We'd need the money." Irene nodded wordlessly, her eyes lowered and staring distantly at nothing. Something about his keeping his money on his person bothered her somehow; he could tell.

"Pity you couldn't use all your clothes here," he gestured to her two large luxury suitcases. Their labels read _Bottega Veneta _and looked fairly new, bought no longer than a few days ago; he wondered briefly how, being "dead" and on the run, she'd found the time to buy new luggage bags, and expensive ones at that. Maybe she had decided to get rid of her old ones to further confuse the people chasing her. "You virtually packed for a pilgrimage."

The woman shrugged as she leaned against the doorframe. "I like to be prepared for anything. Just like you." She nudged one of her bags nearer to him. "Could you please hold this one for me?"

He did so without a word. Had she asked him to in any other situation he would have simply kicked the bag back. But today he figured it would make them look more convincingly like a normal, traveling pair of people.

As Sherlock approached her, she held out her hand, and he allowed it to curl around his arm. Her grip was a little tighter now, he noticed. "Ease off, it's not like I'm going to run away."

Irene smiled at him deviously. "What's wrong now? Does my touch feel a bit different?" She gave his arm a light, teasing squeeze.

He moved with her out of the room and into the hallway. "Yesterday morning it said _This gentleman is taking me out for a meal. _And now it says-"

"_I've fucked this man silly_."

"Language."

"Would you like it in French?"

He ignored her. Irene had been mentioning their _encounter _in various ways all morning. Sherlock decided he didn't want to think about it. He still stood by his suspicion (or _fear_, was it?) that it had an ulterior motive; that it was an attempt to drill through his stony exterior and find that soft, sensitive center that fairytales liked to sing about. She was trying, he believed, to find that center and plant that poisonous _sentiment _that would have him melting in her hands and through her fingers. _No use, Irene_, Sherlock thought to himself. There was no such "center". He was solid rock, through and through.

He put down his bag and fumbled for the key in his pocket, with Irene still clinging to his other arm. He locked the apartment door, saying his silent "goodbyes", and the two of them resumed their walk down the hallway.

"Are you excited?" Irene cooed as they descended the stairs.

"Only excited to finally know where we're actually headed," Sherlock replied.

"Well, you _have _been patient," she said. "And patience gets rewarded." Her fingers fluttered up and down his arm suggestively.

"Another come-on, really? You're becoming redundant."

"It's nice to have a constant in lives like ours."

They reached the bottom floor. Sherlock returned the apartment key to the landlady, explaining in French that he would no longer be living there, and he could clearly spot the relief she was trying to hide. It was understandable. No more creepy foreign ghost hanging around in the fifth floor.

"Well, come now, the car is outside," said Irene, pulling him gently through exit.

"And where will the car take-" Sherlock stopped speaking when he saw the vehicle waiting for them.

Irene looked up at him, having noticed his sudden silence. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock said nothing for a few seconds. "A taxi."

She shifted her gaze to the car. "Yes. You're still as observant as the day we met," she said sarcastically. The taxi was a white Peugeot 406, and the driver was a stocky blonde man in his mid-forties, muttering in French as he stepped forward to take Irene's suitcase and load it into the trunk.

"So we're flying," said Sherlock plainly. "We're supposedly leaving France, but of course a taxi couldn't exit the country. It's bringing us to another method of transport. It's not a boat because the bay is right here. You're bringing us to an airplane."

"Not difficult to deduce that at all," Irene shrugged. The taxi driver took Irene's other bag and loaded it into the car.

"I haven't got a passport."

"I took care of everything. You won't be needing one."

"This is a private jet, then? How on earth did you get one?"

Irene lowered her eyes. "I have my connections."

"So the jet isn't actually yours. Whose is it?"

"Someone else's, obviously."

The brevity of her replies irritated him. She was most definitely withholding a vital piece of information: otherwise she would be bragging openly about her cleverness and her connections without him ever prompting her to. She would be mentioning the men and women she'd charmed to hand over their planes, or to mess the system so that she could fly undetected. Instead, Sherlock noticed, she was conspicuously avoiding his gaze, her red lips half-hidden in a tight line.

"Losing fuel now?" Sherlock asked, nearly sneered. Irene Adler would have retaliated with an even crueler insult, but this Irene, the one beside him, stayed quiet, and it was actually beginning to alarm him. She turned her head away from him, exposing the pale back of her neck that emerged from the collar of her gray coat.

He stared on at her, realizing how little he'd even glanced at her after they had had sex yesterday. And it truly had been very little, because now his scanning of her appearance was bringing on onslaughts of new details of information.

The coat was a newly-bought piece of clothing, he observed: the tag at the back was still crisp and pure-white, and not at all faded. The whole of it was clean, with maybe just a day's worth of use. It was obvious that she'd just purchased it; had she just kept it inside her closet and only brought it out now it would have a faint layer of dust, and if she'd washed it, the tag would have been damaged in some way. No, this coat was a recent buy, just a few days old…

…just like her two luggage bags.

Sherlock glanced at her white pumps. Pristine, expensive-looking, barely any scratches. Also new. He discreetly inhaled a whiff of her perfume. It was the same fragrance that she always used, but it was sharp and strong, not at all stale like something over six months old. She'd bought a new bottle. What, had she gone on a shopping spree after finding out the government was after her again?

And everything she had was astoundingly pricey. A fugitive would save up, would worry about her future, and would only spend on something that ensured her safety. A designer dress couldn't protect you.

No, this was all from another person's money.

"Did this 'someone else' buy you an entire wardrobe before you came for me, too?" Sherlock asked icily.

Irene turned back to him, her eyes slightly wider. It was an expression that screamed _so you've figured it out_, one that on any day of his old, regular life he would have relished seeing, but now it was only making him angrier.

The taxi driver got a hold of Sherlock's bag and put it into the trunk beside Irene's, telling the pair in French to get into the car.

Irene obeyed rather hastily, stepping into the taxi. She looked to Sherlock, the emotion on her face now unreadable. "Get in, Sherlock."

"Not until you tell me where we're going," he responded.

Irene sighed and rolled her eyes. She seemed to be getting impatient and maybe a tad desperate. "I've got a house in Naples."

"You're lying," Sherlock said instantly.

"How did you know?"

"So you _were_," he raised an eyebrow, and beneath his anger he felt a tiny bit of satisfaction that she'd fallen for such a simple track once again, like she had the first time they met.

He watched her lips quiver slightly, and knew he had her cornered. Slowly, she opened her mouth and answered, "London."

"_London_," Sherlock scoffed. He wanted to laugh. "A little early to assume the coast is clear, I'm sorry to say. Unless you've got a friend in the government, you know, the one that wants you dead-"

"I do," she interrupted, her voice like cold steel. Sherlock glared at her, searched her face for some signal of a joke. "You might know him."

The taxi driver was practically barking at Sherlock to get into the car, but between him and Irene there was a thick, endless, sickening silence, pierced through only by wind.

It took another eternity before Sherlock blinked once, twice. "Mycroft."

The intensity of the gaze they shared seemed to overwhelm Irene, and she cast her eyes downwards. "Sherlock, get into the car."

"You planned to leave France this early. You packed two suitcases to throw me off."

"Get in." Her eyes stayed glued to the ground.

The cogs within his mind, the ones that used to turn while solving a case, sprang alive again after months of disuse. "You needed me to panic. You needed me to _want _to leave with you. Was the article your idea, too? Did _he _find a way to print that?"

"Get in."

He continued to stand there, not uttering a word. The driver seemed ready to pick him up and toss him into the seat himself, swearing loudly in French.

"Sherlock," Irene repeated sharply. "Get into the car."

He looked at the driver. He looked at Irene. He whirled ninety degrees and bolted down the street.

The tiny buildings rushed past him in a blinding white blur, and the summer heat pounded down on him through his thick black coat. Still, he didn't stop running. He heard a faint "_Sherlock!_" yelled in his direction, and it only made him increase his pace. The narrow road began to widen and the painted lines on the concrete grew brighter. He was nearing a more populous section of the city; maybe he could have himself get lost in a crowd.

Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He passed by a few pedestrians, all giving him odd looks but he couldn't care any less. Under the rumbling of distant cars and city chatter he could hear the quick pattering of sharp heels behind him. Irene was following him and she wasn't far behind.

He growled in frustration and made a left turn into a narrower, empty road. He had no destination in mind whatsoever. But he _did _have an aim, and it was to get rid of Irene. As he ran, in his head he quickly mapped out the part of Montpellier he was in, predicting where the next turn would lead him and where the quickest escape was.

Horrible move. The thinking had slowed down his speed, and the next thing he felt was a hard weight hitting him from the side and throwing him into an alleyway, where his shoulder and head smashed against the dirty concrete.

It took him a few seconds to snap out of his initial dizziness. Both his sides hurt: the one that landed on the ground and the one that had been crashed into. Before he had the chance to think another word, he shook off his vertigo and found himself lying on his stomach, his cheek pressed to the floor of the alleyway, with both his hands pinned against the pavement. He struggled to open his eyes, and gained a glimpse of his new shackles: red-lacquered claws.

"You underestimate my capabilities… _Mister Holmes_," Irene sneered. She sat with her knees pressing into the upper part of his back, making his lungs and ribcage sear with pain. The words spilled from her lips like a viscous poison, though she was gasping for air in between. The chase had been strenuous for both of them.

Sherlock, panting, tried to jerk upwards several times to try and throw her off of him, but the slightest movement was met with her pressing her knees even harder into his back. The grip she had on his wrists was unbelievably strong, though he guessed in between pangs of pain that it was because she'd pinned him down when he was still in shock. He felt a bloody sting in the brow that was pressed against the ground.

"Get off me," he rasped with what little air their position allowed him. "Get off me… I'll _kill _you."

Irene laughed. "I never took you for one who willingly harmed women."

He attempted to get up one more time. She dug her nails into his wrists until they left sure gashes. "I… _don't_."

"Come back with me," she said, her voice dark. "Stop fighting and come back with me to London."

"You mean… come back with you and _Mycroft_," said Sherlock bitingly. His newfound rage towards his brother gave him a sudden rush of adrenaline. He wrestled one hand free from Irene's and elbowed her hard in her side. She tumbled over and Sherlock pinned her by the forearms to the pavement.

"Get _off _me!" she hissed. She very much resembled how he was only seconds ago in tone and expression.

"First, you promise to let me leave without you and my brother chasing me," Sherlock said, sitting squarely on her thighs so that she couldn't kick him off. He was tall, towering, and she was so small compared to his form. "Then I'll get off you."

"I could just scream," Irene spat. "I'll scream that… you're a rapist."

"I could disappear before anyone came to the rescue," Sherlock retaliated. He tightened his hold of her arms when he felt her shift slightly. "You know what I'm capable of."

"And where are you going to… run off to?" Irene smiled cruelly, though her narrowed eyes and heavy breaths still gave away the pain she was in. "Naples? England? You've got… nowhere to go without my help."

"None of _that _was your help," he said. "That was all _Mycroft's _help. You're just a puppet." The insult sparked a flicker of anger in her eyes. She pulled her right arm out of his grasp and slapped him hard across his face, but before she could do any more damage he pinned her down again, more firmly.

"Still… it's _someone's _help," she panted. Sherlock felt the sting of her slap ring endlessly through the nerves beneath his skin. "So what… if I go back to your brother… _Sherlock-less_? He'll stop… sending you the money… you're surviving on."

That was true. He kept his position over her, but she had already stopped struggling.

"Sure you've got those last few euros in your pocket…" she breathed. "But what will you do once it's run out? Can't get a job, not without any of your papers. Can't come back home, you've no passport, and no place to stay."

His grip on her arms had slackened, and instead of glaring into her piercing blue eyes he stared blankly at the dark, textured concrete beneath her.

Irene smiled wider, more triumphantly. "And even if _I _failed to bring you back, I'm very, _very _sure I'm not Mycroft's only plan. He'll be able to find you, what with the power he holds. He'll just send a couple of men and bring you back the hard way, the doubtlessly painful way… and then you'll wish it was me who brought you back instead. You… have…" she inhaled a gasp of air. "…Nothing."

Sherlock was silent, and for the first time since that fateful night when Moriarty emerged as Richard Brook, he felt utterly defeated.

He was the one towering over her, who had her pinned to the ground, who could kill her by just reaching for her throat and wrapping his fingers tightly around it, and yet he was the one who had lost.

"Sherlock," Irene murmured, and even while under the wave of unwelcome emotions he was feeling, he could somehow sense an odd, sad gentleness in her voice. "Let's go."

Sounds and sights washed by him like they had the day he discovered that Irene was still alive in Battersea Power Station. He looked on blindly, but his arms and legs complied with her command, and he got to his feet.

Irene stood up without asking for his help. Without speaking a word, she smoothed the front of her dress and wiped the dust off her coat. She was missing a shoe, but located it a few feet away from where they crashed into each other. She toed it back on in silence, never meeting his gaze.

They exited the alleyway and walked the long path back to the bay, battered and bruised.

Irene, though armed with the fact that she had won the battle between them, said nothing as they reached taxi, and bit her lip and lowered her eyes while tugging at the sleeves of her ruined new coat, hoping to hide the red marks. But nothing could be done for the blood stained on her fingers.

Sherlock, opening the taxi door and climbing listlessly in, attempted to hide away the misery that simmered within him by assuring himself that he had not lost: this was just a detour, albeit one he'd been tossed into by his impossible, unforgiveable bastard of a brother. His anger towards Mycroft enveloped him so entirely that he hadn't bothered to wipe the blood trailing down his cheek.

The taxi driver, with all of his years of experience in his job, decided not to ask any questions.


	7. Lost Children

_A/N: Hello everyone! I'm sorry this chapter took so long. For the last two weeks I was on vacation in lovely, lovely London. The trip included visits to Baker Street (awesome!), Belgravia (gorgeous!), and of course, Speedy's Cafe (smaller than you think but totally adorable). Little bit of trivia: While there, I had a lot of time to think about this fic, and I had a complete epiphany, so a lot of what I'd originally planned for its future has now completely changed._

Again, sorry that I promised to have this part up sooner, and once again took two more weeks to finish it. It's a little short as it was intended to be the last third of Chapter 6. Don't worry though, a LOOOOT of things will be happening next chapter. And by A LOT, I mean it in the best possible way.

* * *

Peculiar as it sounded, Sherlock Holmes associated airplanes with Irene Adler.

There was that 747 that ended their first battle together. Six-thirty P.M., Heathrow. He remembered every detail, crystal-clear. The code she had tricked him to crack, which turned out not to be a code at all. Their conversation by the fireplace, before he was whisked away to the airport. And the dozens upon dozens of corpses "sleeping" in their seats. Funny how Mycroft was involved in that, too.

Then there was the plane he boarded when he learned about her capture in Karachi. The counterfeit Pakistani visa was easy enough, but risking his life to infiltrate a terrorist cell had been a rather breathtaking challenge. He could still vividly recall when he had turned away from fighting off Pakistani terrorists for a fleeting moment to catch a glimpse of her, a ghost of flowing black, sprinting away to escape. After snipping around the video of the execution, and finding a convincingly-Irene-like body among the terrorists' pile of victims, he set out to find her. But he never did.

There was the plane he boarded, heading home, wondering if his efforts to rescue her had all been in vain.

And finally there was this plane, a Hawker 4000 Horizon business jet (not the best there was in the luxury aircraft market, but still an ostentatious possession). It was small and sleek and carbon white: the angel of death sent to escort him to the underworld. It was the plane he'd been half-tricked, half-forced to ride back to England. And it was all because of Miss Irene Adler.

It was no wonder that he sort of hated airplanes.

The flight back to London was long and icy and quiet. Sherlock and Irene sat in the front-most seats, while a couple of Mycroft's own agents occupied the back. He refused every meal and drink offered him, and didn't speak a single word save for one brief conversation with Irene.

"The information."

"Hmm?"

"The updates on John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. None of that was true?"

"…No."

"Then how are they _actually _doing?"

Irene faced away to look out the window. "I don't know."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, clutching the ends of his armrests, finding himself hating airplanes a little bit more.

* * *

Mycroft's home looked modest enough from the outside. It sat thin and tall amidst a row of identical houses. The inside, however, was a different story: the halls were lined with wooden sculptures of gigantic chess pieces, and the floors were carpeted in rich, dark red. Sherlock and Irene were brought to it by a black Mercedes-Benz, and shown in by the agents.

As they walked down the hall towards the living room, Sherlock had to mentally congratulate himself for keeping an entirely blank exterior since the beginning of their journey in France. Inside he had been brimming with hatred towards Irene and Mycroft, and in some small way himself for letting his guard down so badly. Irene, for most of the trip, kept her face turned away from him, so he couldn't analyze her expression for sure. But her hands dug firmly into her pockets, her slightly slumped shoulders, and her slow, quiet walk all vaguely signified distress. She regretted having to handle Sherlock so roughly, he guessed, and the new emotional distance between them had been taking its toll on her.

They entered the living room, and Sherlock suddenly had to fight the urge to curl his fingers into hard fists. Mycroft stood there, facing a wall-high window, his silhouette a straight black tower against the daylight.

"Hello," he said simply.

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered.

His older brother turned around, and for the first time in four months the siblings laid eyes on each other. Mycroft looked the same for the most part, save for a few added lines of age. For several seconds they only stared, neither speaking a word. Sherlock's eyes glistened with restrained rage while Mycroft's remained cold as stone.

It seemed to take an eternity before Mycroft directed his attention to the woman beside him. "Well, you finished your job like you said. I trust… _almost _everything went smoothly?" There were still conspicuous bruises and wounds all over their faces.

"A spot of trouble at the end of it, but we're here now, at least," replied Irene, casually.

"Yes, thank you," Mycroft nodded. He gestured towards one of his men who had stepped forward. "Carson will escort you to your new residence. Your belongings are on their way there as well. The first payment is on the table in the second-floor hallway."

Irene nodded silently back and, without ever meeting Sherlock's eyes again, she walked over to the agent named Carson and they exited the room.

The door swung closed and the hallway outside vanished, swallowing The Woman along with it. But Sherlock had no time to dwell on the fact that she had manipulated him purely out of greed. He kept his gaze on his brother.

Mycroft took a seat in his velvet couch, leaning forward to pour tea into two cups on the table before him. "Take a seat, Sherlock."

"I'd rather stand, thanks," he answered curtly.

Mycroft shrugged. He set down the tea kettle, and rested his hands on his knees. "Welcome home."

"Why am I here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

His brother lifted a cup and sipped from it, taking his sweet time to reply. "I wanted you here."

His temper rising, Sherlock took a threatening step forward. "I don't _want _to be here. You knew what my plan was, and you didn't need to hide behind _that Woman _to lure me back home."

"Yes, I knew your plan," Mycroft snapped. He set his teacup back firmly in his saucer, making a hard _clink_. "But I didn't like it. Three years roaming the globe to kill off a web of faceless assassins, criminals? You think yourself superhuman."

Sherlock opened and closed his fists. A dozen retorts, each more insulting than the last, sprang to his mind, but he kept them from escaping his mouth. Instead he trudged over to the window, staring out at Mycroft's garden. "You think this is all because of some bloated ego. I'm doing it to end Moriarty's reign over the criminal world. He has people, connections, plans, even after death. I'm doing it to protect my friends."

He heard his brother put down his saucer and stand up from the couch. He heard his footsteps approaching him until he was at his side. "Destroying Moriarty's web is not your responsibility," Mycroft said, in a manner so unsettlingly gentle that it stood out from his usually flat way of speaking.

Sherlock let a sardonic laugh escape his lips. "Maybe not. But my friends still are."

"But they will stay safe as long as _Sherlock Holmes _stays dead," said Mycroft. "We could make you someone else. Change your appearance. Put out some fake documents. It wouldn't be the first time the government allowed that to happen."

Sherlock flashed a glance at him, his eyes narrowed. "What makes you so desperate to keep me here?"

Mycroft took a breath. He looked out the window, and the sunlight outlined his profile, proud and sharp. "You owe me."

"Owe you _what_?"

"A year or so of silence," he replied, turning to Sherlock. "Your work as a consulting detective may be much appreciated by Scotland Yard and your countless clients, but oftentimes you cause more trouble than you fix. It may very well be that Moriarty wouldn't have committed that triple break-in had it not been for his obsession over _you. _That might not have been your fault; nonetheless I ask you to lay low for a while."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, not believing his ears. He backed away one step from the window, from his brother. "And where do you expect me to _lay low?_"

"I'll have you sent back to the neighborhood of our parents," said Mycroft. "I'll arrange for you to live in a decent house. Not far from some of our relatives. Mother could keep an eye on you. It might take a day or two, on top of creating your new paperwork. You can stay here with me for the time being."

He laughed once again, a little more acidic. "You treat me like a lost child."

"It can't be helped that you always act like one," Mycroft shot back.

And then came several seconds where neither of them spoke. It wasn't the silence of anger, however. It was only the silence of two brothers so used to arguing, maybe even comfortable with it.

"Did you know…" Mycroft began all of a sudden, in a startlingly soft voice. "…after we spoke, after we planned your escape, I went to the club and John was there waiting for me?"

"Really," Sherlock said, deadpan. But the mention of John had caught his attention, and now he was listening a little more.

"Yes. He scolded me for telling Moriarty all about you." Mycroft hesitated before continuing, as if he were being forced to speak. "I asked him to send you an apology. Did it ever reach you?"

Sherlock looked at the bruised, reddened parts of his hands that had crashed against the pavement earlier that morning, all the way back in France. "No."

"Ah," was all Mycroft said, and he seemed to have nothing more to say on the subject.

"How_ is_ John?" Sherlock asked, but he didn't turn to look at his brother.

"Grieving, as you'd expect," he responded. From the very edge of his sight Sherlock could see Mycroft facing towards him, his head tilted slightly to one side. "He left the flat about two months ago. Staying with family, I was informed. But he still visits it… your 'grave'. Every afternoon."

Sherlock allowed himself some time to swallow the fact, though it went down a bit harder than he'd hoped. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Staying with the Turners next door to 221B. The death was hard on her too, you know."

Sherlock nodded slowly, and then bowed his head.

"As much as I insist that I've brought you back because you owe me, Sherlock," his brother continued. "I do believe that you owe _them_ just as much."

"So what do you expect me to do?" Sherlock asked, irritated. "Surprise them in their living rooms? Hug them in tears? Throw a party after, maybe?"

Mycroft shrugged, suddenly casual. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

He made it sound almost like a quip, which was a peculiar thing to come out of someone like Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock realized that he was trying to get on his good side, so that he would cooperate with his "relocation" plan. Sure, Mycroft was supposedly cleverer than him, but Sherlock was _quicker_.

"What time is it?" Sherlock said abruptly.

Nothing came from Mycroft's mouth for a few seconds, as if he were confused by the question. Then he lifted his wrist and read his watch. "Half past two?"

"I'm stepping out," Sherlock announced. He spun around and headed for the door. He felt Mycroft's gaze upon his back follow him across the room.

"What makes you think I'll let you?" his brother called out.

Sherlock twisted the doorknob with a tight hand. "I've got no money or passport, and I'm willing to bet you've got maximum surveillance on me. What trouble could I possibly cause? Spare me your smug display of power." That was a bit of a lie, though. He still had what remained of his Montpellier money buried in his coat pocket.

"If that's so," Mycroft kept on, sounding unwounded. "Where do you have to go, then?"

"There's someone I need to see," Sherlock replied, as he pushed the door open.

"Miss Adler?" said Mycroft, and Sherlock could sense the scowl on his face by the sound of his voice. "Forgive my improbable deduction, but I've a feeling she doesn't really want to talk to you right now."

"I forgive your improbable deduction," he answered in a mocking tone. "Because it's not her I'm seeing."

A pause. "Where, then? Don't hide answers from me as if I were a child."

As he exited through the hallway door, he simply couldn't help himself. Sherlock turned his head a final time before leaving, and said, "It can't be helped that you always act like one."


	8. Great Men Destroyed

_A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the longest chapter of the story by far! You do not know how long I have been waiting to finish this. ("A long time?" "...Ages." [couldn't help myself]). I do hope you like what happens, because man does a lot happen._

_For Stardust From The Planet Gallifrey, who has very nicely consoled me through all of my writer-freakouts. And whose delicious Sherlock/Irene fics keep me going.  
_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock spotted his black travel bag at the end of the hall, sitting next to the main door. They'd brought it inside, but he surmised that the guest room wasn't ready yet so they couldn't unpack it. Without slowing down his pace, in a strange, impulsive move he tugged off his maroon scarf, because it simply smelled too much like _her _perfume. As he passed by his bag, he spotted the end of his old blue scarf, and pulled it out. He wrapped it around his throat, careful to conceal the fake blood stains in the material.

He held his money in his coat pocket tightly in a fist, as he walked towards the door. They were euros, of course useless unless he went to a money changer, but better it was in his hands than Mycroft's.

Whatever Mycroft had in mind for him, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to go through with. And it wasn't just out of spite for his brother. He had his own plans, and to be hidden in some quiet faraway hometown obviously didn't match up to them.

In one swift movement he pushed the main door open and walked through, honestly a little surprised that Mycroft hadn't come chasing after him yet. It was probably because he believed he knew where Sherlock was going. He would have people watching in the airport, at the bay, in the bank, even Irene Adler's new residence, wherever that was.

Too bad he wasn't heading for any of those places.

* * *

The cemetery where he'd been "buried" was a small and quiet spot situated near the bustling center of London. At least, that was where Mycroft assured him it would be, in their talk four months ago. Sherlock quickened his walk. He had to get there as soon as possible.

John used to have his therapy sessions from one-thirty P.M. to two-thirty P.M. every Saturday – which was today, coincidentally. And if he'd truly been as damaged as Mycroft had said, then Sherlock's "death" would have made him go back to his psychiatrist. And if he really _had _been visiting Sherlock's grave every day, then today it would be right after his session, when he would be feeling his lowest. The transfer from the psychiatrist's office to the cemetery would take ten minutes, give or take. So he would arrive at Sherlock's grave at approximately two-forty … two-forty-_five _if he picked Mrs. Hudson up along the way.

As he exited the residential street, Sherlock pulled part of his scarf higher to cover his face. It was silly-looking for a warm day, but he couldn't risk being recognized, and any stranger who might stare at him in confusion would forget about him roughly four seconds after, anyway.

London was busy as always, but somehow unchanged, as if nothing had happened when he left it four months ago. With his head tilted downwards and half-buried in his scarf, he saw the same hurried march of brown and black shoes washing past him, and the same approximate number of tossed cigarettes on the pavement. He could also see the front pages of the papers and tabloids they held – something about a bomb in Australia or some American political scandal, and nothing about him. The fuss over his case was finally, thankfully over.

Sherlock found himself passing through a city square. The heavy but familiar smell of air pollution, and deafening blare of car horns and engines triggered within his mind the realization of how much he had missed London. It was something he would never admit aloud, though.

He walked on for another ten minutes. Exactly eight times he had to duck into a store or café to avoid meeting the eyes of people who knew him: five instances of someone whom he'd solved a case for, three instances of a Scotland Yard inspector.

Sherlock reached the cemetery at what he estimated was two-forty-eight. The sun was still high but it had become blanketed by clouds. Not many visitors today, conveniently. He fixed his scarf so that it no longer hid the lower part of his face, and pushed the small black gate open.

He trudged past the towering mausoleums and stone angels. There was no grand monument on his grave, he knew. With all the commotion over his fall from grace and suicide it wouldn't have been appropriate for Mycroft to put one. What he was looking for was a simple headstone – and hopefully – a landlady and an army doctor standing before it.

Why on earth did he want to see them, though? The simple, innocent, sugary answer could have been concluded with a "he missed them". But that obviously wasn't it. One instance of any of his friends seeing him – one _glimpse _– would send Mycroft's plan of keeping him hidden falling apart, and make all of Irene's efforts for naught. It was an amusingly easy way to get both of them angry, and the fact that neither of them would be able to do anything about it was a pleasing bonus. All that he needed, Sherlock thought as he entered a more forest-like part of the cemetery, was for John or Mrs. Hudson to be there.

But his steps screeched to a halt, and the thoughts in his head suddenly went mute, when he saw that they _were_.

Two devastatingly familiar figures, yards and yards away, their backs turned to the real Sherlock Holmes while facing the non-existent dead one buried in the ground. One turned around, and he instantly recognized the features: Mrs. Hudson, a little worse for wear, keeping a hand to her mouth as she walked away from the grave. Even from a distance her image was unmistakable, and Sherlock found himself surprised and disturbed that he couldn't come up with a single coherent thought in response to the situation.

Mrs. Hudson ambled on past the headstones, and despite the wide-open chance to run forward and reveal to his landlady that he was alive, Sherlock's feet forced him backwards and deeper into the woods, and he couldn't completely explain to himself _why_. He could only watch as Mrs. Hudson bowed her head, wiping carelessly at her cheeks, before disappearing completely from sight.

That left John, standing all alone.

At any other point of his life Sherlock would have considered speaking to a slab of stone in the ground ridiculous. But he couldn't keep his eyes off his former flatmate – his former _best friend _– as his shoulders rose and fell, as his mouth moved to deliver a speech he would never, ever be able to hear. He saw John moved forward, gingerly placing a hand on the headstone.

John half-turned to walk away, but Sherlock watched him spin back around one last time, and even from his spot far away where he could hear nothing, it was clear that John was trying to choke out the last of a futile plea - one that Sherlock would have given everything up to fulfill, had he known what it was.

Sherlock promptly turned around, walked briskly away from the scene, stepped over graves and trampled flowers, swung the black gate loudly open, left the cemetery, walked on and on and on, and it wasn't until he was three blocks away that he realized his hands were shaking.

* * *

He needed to stay _somewhere_.

Going back to Mycroft's house was not an option. So he decided to go home. To Baker Street.

According to his brother, Mrs. Hudson was staying next door with her friends the Turners, while John was staying with family, possibly with Harry. So 221B would be empty – he couldn't live there, of course, but at least he would have some quiet space where he could plan out his next move and think a little more clearly.

He arrived there about thirty-five minutes later, and thankfully Mrs. Hudson wasn't around to spot him. The front door would be locked, of course –

but his bedroom window wouldn't be.

Any other person would question the placement of a window that would only see a decaying concrete wall. For Sherlock Holmes, the answer was obvious: for easy entrance and quick escape.

He had to avoid the front of the building. Sherlock moved around the block until he was in the alleyway behind it. It was dark, narrow and dusty, and best of all abandoned. He crept his way through, careful not to make any noise that would alarm the surrounding residents.

A thin white pipe ran up the back wall of 221B, and was conveniently next to his bedroom window. All he had to do was climb it up to his floor and pull his window open.

But then Sherlock looked upwards. He knitted his brows, and his mouth was pulled into a tight line. He suddenly felt a hard knot in his throat that he couldn't swallow.

Someone had already opened the window for him.

* * *

After a slow, steady climb, Sherlock tumbled gracelessly into his old bedroom. He scrambled to his feet and looked around. There was nobody there but him.

His bed, his bookshelf and the pictures on his walls were a welcome sight, but he had no time to sit back and drink in the image. He shrugged off his coat, removed his scarf, and tossed the items onto his bed, and then advanced towards the door.

He walked slowly, quietly, through the tiny hallway, and already _that scent _wafted powerfully through the air. He entered the kitchen, and not even its faint air of food and past experiments distracted his senses. Not even the dozens of boxes that Mrs. Hudson had no doubt thrown his lab materials into made him change his focus. He noticed that a narrow path had been cleared between them, as if someone had already walked through. He went onwards, to the living room.

And of course, there she was, his maddening, mysterious Woman, seated in his armchair like a queen.

"Thank you for opening the window for me," Sherlock said plainly.

"Sherlock," she answered. Her voice sounded concerned, and grave, and there was no smile on her face. She was wearing a crisp, white button-down blouse with full-length sleeves, and stylish black suit trousers. Strangely unfeminine for Irene Adler's style, but he figured that she'd taken on a fresh image to go with her new identity.

Expressionless, Sherlock walked past her to pick up his violin, which had kept its original place at the window. "So what's this one like?"

"The name is Juliet Toulson," he heard her say. "Sickeningly sweet, but it was your brother's doing. I've decided that she's an art investor who's made a fortune off the avant-garde types. What do you think?"

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. His violin wore a thin layer of dust, which he gently blew off. He lifted his bow and played a test note. Not bad after four months of disuse. "What's the self-portrait?" he asked, remembering what she had once said about disguises.

"I love strangely pretty things," her lips suddenly quirked up into a smirk, and she looked a little less gloomy. "And I love to take _risks_."

He snorted. "Dull."

"Really?" Irene asked. "Do you find me dull?"

Sherlock set his violin down, and pulled the curtains closed in case anyone could see them from the street. "You tricked me for money. How very ordinary of you."

The room turned darker, and there was a brief silence. "Are you disappointed?" he heard her voice ask him. "That I wasn't more extraordinary? Like _you_?"

Maybe that was the case. Maybe he was disappointed that the one human being who seemed to share his intellect (and wasn't out to kill him) had turned out just as shallow as the rest of them. _Or maybe_ _it's just a broken heart_, he thought to himself mockingly.

"How did you know I'd come here?" he changed the topic, turning back towards her.

Irene smiled a little at him, and then turned her head and leaned back in his chair, closing her eyes. "Where else would a homesick Sherlock Holmes run? Took you a while, though. Did you make a quick stop at the Tesco?"

"Cemetery," he managed to exhale. The memory of the visit, no matter how unwelcome it was, was still vivid in his head.

The response seemed to catch Irene's attention. She opened her eyes and lifted her head. "What did you expect to find there?" she asked, as she slowly stood up from the chair to face him.

Sherlock opened his mouth but closed it again. He briefly wondered if sharing his _tragic tale of woe_ with Irene Adler would gain him anything. But then he realized he didn't have to, because judging by her new expression, his reticence had told her everything she needed to know.

"So you saw _them_," Irene guessed, emphasizing the last word with an emotion he couldn't quite identify.

There really was no point in lying. "Yes."

"But… you didn't approach them?" she asked.

Sherlock stood his ground and didn't break eye contact with her. "No."

"…And so you made your way here, where you found me." The second half of her sentence was colored with a tiny bit of cockiness.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, because you broke into my old flat, in the very same way, through the very same window. How redundant. I'm sure you're quite proud of yourself."

Irene laughed in response, and considering how their last meeting had ended it was a peculiar thing to hear. "Do you want to know what I'm proud of, Sherlock? I'm proud to be one of the few people on this planet who are able to stir up a_ reaction_ out of you."

His lips became a tight line again. It was such a maddening thing for her to say, but if he made any kind of heated retort he would only prove it true. And how true it was. She'd gotten him to travel all the way to Karachi to save her. She'd gotten him to lose his temper in Montpellier, when they ran away from the fake policeman. And she'd gotten him to… to…

"You think you _know _me," Sherlock scoffed acidly, mentally shooing away that vivid memory that had just begun to emerge.

"I know what you _like_." An answer that was pure Irene. The smirk on her face grew. "You like _sex _because it's almost like a substitute for smoking for you. I got to you at the right time – tired, on the edge and in desperate need of a cigarette. You like me better with my hair down, because it turns out you're a _puller_. Oh, and you like _this_-" she tilted her head back slightly and tapped a finger on her collarbone, pale and bare. "-You paid quite a lot of attention to this spot, right here."

If there was a blush rising in Sherlock Holmes' cheeks, he did not want to check. He quickly turned back to the window, no longer willing to sustain eye contact. "I'm not enjoying this. I came here to be alone. You should leave."

"Sherlock," said Irene, her voice back to a low, serious tone. He heard nothing for a few seconds, then she began to speak again, "…I suppose the normal thing to do after tricking you to 'come back to life' is get on my knees and apologize. Or simply never show myself to you again. But, really, what is even _normal _about tricking someone to come back to life to begin with? Why do you need to pretend to feel hurt and deceived and betrayed like a normal person would? Why should we pretend anything we do is normal?"

He felt his hands begin to shake again, and buried them in his pockets. He heard her take a few steps forward then stop. "We're not _normal_, Sherlock. That's why we're drawn to each other – and don't even try and deny that, I swear to god. This whole mess has taken a toll on you, and wounded your pride, and believe me when I say it made me feel like garbage-" he grunted derisively at that, but she kept on, "-but I know, Sherlock, _I know_… you'd have preferred the last three days to stay as they were instead of being something normal. Uneventful. _Boring_."

"That's _not _your call," he spat, facing her again. In his pockets, his hands had become fists. "I think you should leave. Now."

"_No_," Irene shot back, and the volume she'd raised her voice to almost startled him. "No, stop that, stop _thinking_. Go with what you feel, Sherlock. You want to be angry with me, to pin the 'villain' label onto me. You want to push me away because I've ruined everything and you don't want to admit that I beat you. But I bet you're _glad_, Sherlock. You're glad that some action's returned to your life and you don't need to rot away in France anymore. You're glad I came for you."

"Oh, please, don't give yourself all the credit," Sherlock sneered. "After all, it was darling Mycroft who found you, and offered you the reward, and told you where I was so you could bring his beloved brother back to him."

"You think I am so shallow," Irene shook her head, frustrated. "That I accepted his offer because I wanted the money and flat and protection."

"_Well_," said Sherlock, and the word was dripping with contempt. "What else could there be?"

Irene's lip quivered, and she stared at him with angry, widened eyes. "There was _you_."

Sherlock stared back. He bit down hard on his lip, as if holding back the ruthless insult he'd planned to use in response. "What, am I supposed to be touched?"

She shook her head again, but more gently. "You know exactly how I feel about you, Sherlock. There's really no point in trying to hide it anyway. You've known for ages. But that's not what I meant. There was _you_. You're worth more than some new identity or bloody flat. A brilliant mind like yours, wasting away in some boring part of the continent, all because of one fight with Moriarty? You're more than that. That's why I brought you back. You need to become yourself again."

Sherlock didn't respond for several moments. But then his vision focused back on her, and his train of thought returned to some semblance of a straight line, and he realized that his mouth had been hanging open. He swallowed, struggling to get his answer out of himself. "I wasn't going to waste away. I was planning to track down Moriarty's men and eliminate them."

"I could _help_," said Irene, sounding suddenly breathless and eager. She stepped forward. "I could help."

Sherlock shook his head, aggravated. "No, no you _can't_, Irene. You only think you can. You think it'll be easy."

Her lips had parted slightly after she spoke, and Sherlock realized that he'd been watching them, and looked away. "No, I don't think it'll be easy," she replied. "I'm not your wide-eyed, innocent sidekick. I've seen _dangerous _things, and we both know that extremely well."

He felt his breathing quicken, and he couldn't tell whether it was because he was growing angrier or more uneasy. "No, I think-"

"Stop. _Thinking_," she interrupted, in a voice like ice. "Don't try and analyze everything I'm saying. Tell me, what would you do, right now, if you weren't thinking?"

_I don't even know_, the answer sprang into Sherlock's mind, but he frantically hid it away before it could reach his lips. "Why," he asked, trying to stall for more time, though he didn't even know what he was trying to postpone. "…What would _you _do?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Irene replied, in a voice like honey. Her new smile told Sherlock that this was probably the question she'd been hoping for. Hell. Was he _really _that predictable for her? It hurt to think it. "You know what I'd do?" She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, the better to meet his gaze with her own piercing eyes. "I'd _kiss_ you, Sherlock, because otherwise, you'd never, ever, _ever _be able to shut up."

His eyes widened for a split second, but he fought to keep on his stoic façade. It was getting difficult, though. Why did she always have to make him so _angry_? He swallowed the knot in his throat for the hundredth time. "You're trying to seduce me again. What for? There's… nothing more to gain."

Irene sighed. She reached out a hand and lightly played with a fold in his shirt, as if preparing to grab for him in case he ran. "Do you really think that's all what sex is for? It always has some ulterior motive?"

Sherlock lifted his own hand to brush hers away, albeit gently. "No. But you showed me it could be. It's… _powerful. _Now all of those historical stories of great men destroyed by their mistresses make sense. Caesar and Cleopatra. Henry the Eighth, Anne Boleyn. Madame-" And then he realized that she had gotten him to ramble distractedly and forget that they were arguing. "Never mind." He closed his mouth tightly and read her expression: she'd realized it, too, and was delighted.

"What were you saying, then?" she sang, drawing herself closer. "That it's _powerful_?"

"_Don't_," Sherlock told her sharply. She was so near him that it was unsettling. So near, in fact, that he could smell the old cigarette smoke all over her, blending faintly with her perfume. It was intentional. Any other woman who smoked would try to mask the scent completely. _I know what you like_, her words formed within his head. No. No, no, no, no. Did she think she was going to win this way?

"Come on, Sherlock," Irene said, and her eyebrows furrowed. She was growing impatient. It was almost fascinating to watch, and Sherlock realized how intensely he'd been staring at her face. "My life's just been turned into one big, giant blank, and it's not like you can get into any more trouble than you are now. I think we both need the… release. What have you got to lose? Abso-bloody-lutely nothing."

He let out a lungful of air that he never knew he'd been holding. His hands were shaking again, but the realization left his mind as quickly as it had come. "Sex. Again. Is that really all you _think_ of?"

"Ah, but remember what I said," she whispered with a devious smile. "There's no _thinking _involved."

And god was she right, he admitted to himself. During their encounter back in France, he felt like he had lost all logic and reasoning. Neither could stand unbent to the alien, terrifying force of _lust_. He knew that now, and he hated that he knew it. He also hated that he knew how her chest was barely touching his, or that her fingers had just begun to brush against the material of his trousers. Her touch set something off in his nervous system. It was his body responding, he assured himself almost desperately, and not _him._

"So, tell me, will you," he heard her voice ask him. "If you weren't thinking, what could you do?"

Her half-open eyes, reddened cheeks and parted lips all sent a torrent of very unwelcome memories of their night in Montpellier. Very, very unwelcome. But his answer to her question suddenly came along with them, clear and obvious as day. "…Anything I wanted."

The last sound he heard was his sharp exhale and the last thing he saw was _her_, before he shut his eyes and they collided in a hard, crushing kiss. Her hands clutched the material of his shirt on his chest into tight fists, while a white-hot spark seemed to shoot through his own hands, causing them to wander aimlessly, desperately down her back and waist.

The next thing he knew, they were both on their knees, and he was pulling savagely at her blouse, trying to feel her skin, trying to feel everything that had happened in Montpellier once more. It truly was a great substitute to smoking, _it was_- and he needed a substitute right now more than anything else. She responded by thrusting her tongue into his mouth, and he could sense that she needed this too, for her own reasons that he would figure out later. But before he could mentally list down that note Irene threw her arms around his waist and pressed him hard against her, and he forgot absolutely everything.

Blindly, he pushed her backwards until she was pinned against the back of his armchair. She groaned into his mouth, digging her nails into the lower part of his back until there would surely be marks. She pulled that part of him closer to her, so that he thrust against her through his clothes. Even with all the material between them he felt a fire ignite somewhere in the lower part of his abdomen, and he gasped, hard, involuntarily.

The sensations slowly began to overwhelm Sherlock, and he pulled away from their deep, desperate kiss to press his face into Irene's neck, groaning as he tried to return his breathing to a regular pace, and to sooth the sound of his heart beating loudly in his head.

"Sherlock," she gasped, and her warm breath traveled past his cheek and down his neck, and sent bolts through his trembling hands and down his waist. "…Come on. Come on."

He sank into a deep, peculiar bliss, and that was all that mattered for now.


	9. Surprise, Surprise

_A/N: Well throw a robe on me and crown me Queen of Late Updates! Because I am so, so terrible. But now I have something else to blame it on: college! Over where I'm at, the academic year starts in June. I have awful timing, really. I hope this chapter makes up for it._

_I also want to take this time to again thank all of the people who have reviewed, favorited or put this on alerts! I appreciate and adore every single one of you. You guys brighten my day!_

* * *

He sat, fully dressed, quiet, and expressionless in his armchair, while she buttoned up her blouse, turned away from him. She stood facing that direction for several moments, almost as if she weren't ready to look at him again, before she finally turned her head and their gazes met, distant and strange and almost uncomfortable. For a long time, it was just like that.

After what seemed like a full minute, Sherlock furrowed his brows and lowered his eyes to the floor, and said quietly, "I don't do this."

"What?" asked Irene, as she folded her sleeves upwards.

"I don't do- I don't _know how_- to do _this_," he lifted a hand and gestured vaguely to the space between them, and found himself frustrated at how poor his articulacy had become, due to… what had just happened. Fortunately enough, Irene looked as if she understood him when she nodded slowly. He meant that he didn't know what to do _after _a sexual encounter – what was usually done, what was said, what was appropriate.

He expected her to laugh after nodding, or at least smirk. But, to his surprise, Irene's eyes shifted to the side, her lips parted slightly as if unsure of her answer, before replying, almost sheepishly, "Neither do I."

"_Really_," Sherlock said incredulously. He frowned. If there was any one person in the exclusive circle of people he knew besides clients who would understand sex and everything surrounding it, it was Irene Adler (exasperating, enigmatic Irene Adler), though this revelation had caused that notion a little trouble.

"Really," Irene said, and _this _time she smiled slightly, probably glad to have been able to catch him by surprise. _Again_.

"That's odd," stated Sherlock, plainly. He leaned forward to study an old, dusty tabloid sitting on the table in front of him. It was dated over three months ago – the day John had stopped staying in 221B, apparently. The headline was stark white text on a black background – _Sherlock Holmes confirmed as fake after further investigation. _He spotted mentions of Richard Brook. Jim Moriarty. John Watson.

"It is, isn't it?" her velvety voice pulled him back into reality, and he looked up at her again. Irene looked pensive, almost embarrassed, which was a first. "It will surprise you to know that 'pillow talk' is as much a foreign concept to me as it is to- dare I say it- you. After all, I haven't been in a proper relationship since college. Every single time after that has been… well… with an ulterior motive."

It was a verbal tip of the hat to something they had discussed – argued about, honestly – previously that day. The disconcerting thing about what she said, however, was how uncomfortable (and almost _ashamed_) she looked while speaking… as if her former life was an unwelcome topic. Besides that, however, there was something else she'd mentioned that caught Sherlock's attention.

"Is that what you think this is?" Sherlock asked, his voice deep, serious. "A _proper _relationship?"

The uneasiness in Irene's eyes was suddenly replaced with a flash of amused surprise, when she realized what she'd said. "Oh, no, _never_," she answered almost laughingly. "I've already told you that there's nothing ordinary about this. But at least you know that _this _didn't happen because I wanted your information, or your riches," she paused to chuckle to herself, "because god knows that in your current state you're severely short on both of those."

He didn't laugh. It wasn't really that funny to him. But he grunted in agreement, transferring his gaze to the dozens of boxes sitting around the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson had thought to pack away his laboratory instruments, but couldn't think of where to put them. "I suppose that's true. There's really nothing to steal off me, anyway."

"And to assure you even further," Irene continued, brushing both hands through her hair in an attempt to tame its new tangles. "Had this been any other 'mission' I would have disappeared by now."

Sherlock had to scowl a little, her quip having brought on a certain memory. "You have a tendency to do that."

She turned to him again, her fingers midway through the mess of her hair. "Hmm?"

"Irene," he said, leaning forward again. After a period of mild inactiveness, his mind had sprung back into action, churning with questions, ideas. "In… Karachi…"

She could see where this was heading. She brought her hands down from her hair, her expression now just as serious as his. "What?"

"After you saw me, after I told you to run, what did you do?" That part of his journey to rescue her had remained blank, unanswered, a missing piece in one of his greatest cases.

Irene smiled a bit again. "I did exactly what you told me to. I ran." She took small, unhurried steps towards the window, her eyes staring off into the light outdoors. "I had to fight off a few men. Ran on and on and on, out of the cell and out onto the road. I honestly had no idea where the hell I was going. I just wanted to keep running. I think I collapsed from exhaustion around an hour later. I woke up two days later in the charity hospital of a mosque. I stayed there for about three more days, just trying to eat as much as I could and gain my health back, which was rather rude of me when I think about it, but could you blame a girl who had thought she was going to die a week before? They were a charity hospital but I thought to pay them back somehow. I had no money on me, so I left them a ring I had on. Had a diamond on it. Worth more than everything they gave me, but I really didn't have much else."

"I went looking for you, you know," Sherlock interrupted her. The words themselves would have sounded dangerously caring, had he not delivered them so deadpan. "I was going to help you get out of the country."

Irene reacted with a good-humored smile. "_Now _you tell me," she quipped, and then continued, "I was able to leave it myself, though. Pawned my earrings and bought a ferry ticket. A friend – not really a friend, I… can't think of a better term – in the U.A.E. helped me get to a flat I had in Paris. You may have taken my phone, Sherlock, but I still had my connections, all around the globe. You didn't have to worry about me. I managed."

Well, of course she did. If any person on this earth had the audacity to claim the title of "the woman who beat him", she had better have the smarts and the capability to escape from a terrorist cell to a safer country all on her own. Still, in his head he gave himself the credit of helping her off the launch pad, by taking care of the terrorists surrounding her.

"I've got to go," said Irene, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie. She had the odd ability to do that, to nudge him out of his thoughts and back into the real world, when most others couldn't even get him to open his eyes.

"Why?" he asked, though he sounded more curious than distressed. (Hadn't the Woman stamped on quite enough of his dignity already today?)

"I've got to get back to my new flat," she replied, turning towards the wall mirror and combing her hair with her fingers. "Juliet Toulson needs to get her life started if she wants to be as inconspicuous as possible. Else your brother will notice how idle I'm being." She paused for a few seconds, and faced him with an almost mischievous glint in her eyes. "Want to come with?"

Slumping further down his chair, Sherlock shook his head. Her mention of Mycroft had pulled him rather forcefully back into his current reality: that he was a faceless dead man who wasn't supposed to be there. "I think I'll stay here. I'm sure Mycroft's noticed how long I've been gone. He's smart enough to come to Baker Street to check for me."

For a moment Irene looked unsure, almost concerned, but then she tilted her head and smiled gently. "In any case, I'd better get going."

Then she did the most peculiar thing – she walked towards him and lowered her face to his and her hands came up from her sides to rest on his cheekbones, and it took that much time for Sherlock to realize she was trying to give him a goodbye kiss. His own hands shot up and took her wrists, bringing them away from him, while he moved his head back a fraction of an inch so that Irene kissed only the air.

She opened her eyes, blinking, in surprise and in confusion. He stared back, with a firm, guarded expression. Then, lowering his voice to nearly just a rumbling whisper, he told her, "I'm not yet done with you."

He meant that he didn't yet completely trust her, not even after their conversation, not even after what followed that. He wasn't done trying to figure out her motives. Saying that to anyone else would have been cruel. But this was Irene Adler, whom he had reason to be suspicious of. And she understood and accepted that entirely, judging by the look on her face.

But then she leaned forward again, evidently not discouraged by his language, both bodily and verbal, so that she could answer into his ear, "Neither am I."

And the tone of her voice suggested that she was not at all talking about trust.

Simultaneously they let go of each other. Without another word, Irene flashed him one more dangerous smile, and turned to make her way past the boxes in the kitchen and into his bedroom. Of course she would use the back window again. The main doors were probably locked from the outside, and it wouldn't do anyway to simply stroll out of a supposedly abandoned building.

The last glimpse Sherlock had of her was her back and long, untamed hair as she closed his bedroom door behind her. He leaned his head back on his chair, placed his hands together, and shut off the outside world.

* * *

It wasn't long before he could hear brisk, heavy steps ascending the stairs. An odd, light clack accompanied them – he'd brought his brolly along, giving his identity away immediately. But Sherlock figured he wasn't trying to hide it, anyway. The steps went on, and increased in volume, before stopping right behind the door into the flat.

Sitting in his armchair, with his head resting on it and his eyes closed, Sherlock heard nothing for a short while. Mycroft had realized that the door was locked. But something strange followed: tiny clicking, turning sounds that continued for several seconds.

Sherlock raised his head and opened his eyes in time for Mycroft to pull open the door and step inside. They regarded each other with cool, steely gazes, evidently neither entirely happy to see the other.

"You remembered how to pick a lock, impressive," Sherlock said, not breaking their eye contact. "I never took you for the spying type."

"I never took you for the sentimental type," came his brother's reply, as he surveyed their surroundings with a bored expression. "Paying a visit to your old flat, how sweet. It's funny; nobody's lived here for ages and it's still as much a mess as it was before."

Then promptly he whirled around and started his way out. "Well, then, we'd best be off before Mrs. Hudson notices her building's been broken into. Come with me, we're returning to my house."

"Why should I?" asked Sherlock stubbornly, though it was just to irritate his brother.

"Because you've eaten nothing today and you're starving," Mycroft answered back, already descending the stairs. "Come, I've got food in the car."

As soon as the words _eaten _and _starving_ reached his ears, a long-forgotten, unwelcome pang of hunger filled his stomach, and Sherlock silently cursed his brother for triggering it. As uninterested as he was in eating, he was still trapped in a disappointingly human body. He felt suddenly too tired now to fight against his sudden hunger or Mycroft, and stood up to follow. But as he took a step forward, he suddenly remembered something, and exclaimed, "Wait."

Mycroft looked over his shoulder impatiently. "What is it now?"

"I left some of my things in my- in the bedroom," said Sherlock, and before Mycroft could comment any further he strode through the room, then the kitchen, and finally made his way into his old room to retrieve his coat and scarf.

Only they weren't there.

Sherlock froze at the doorway, but his shock and confusion lasted for less than a second when an image of Irene Adler – faced away from him, closing his door – flashed across his mind. His bewildered face gave way to a scowl. Why on earth had she taken his coat and scarf? Then he briefly heard their last exchange in his head. _"I'm not yet done with you." "Neither am I." _This was simply a little message she'd left behind: that they would meet again.

When he reemerged empty-handed, Mycroft, at the top of the stairs, frowned. "What did you say you left?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. Let's go." His brother very obviously didn't believe him, but he seemed eager to leave regardless. Together they walked, side by side, down the stairs, trying to keep as far away from each other as possible.

They climbed into a plain, inconspicuous black car parked just outside the residence. Inside was a small brown paper bag, and Sherlock realized instantly that it was the food Mycroft had mentioned. Greedily he pulled it open and dug a hand inside it, but as soon as his fingers grabbed hold of a familiar shape and texture, he lifted his eyes to give his brother an icy glare. "A _croissant_?"

"Thought you'd be missing France." Mycroft smirked triumphantly, apparently gleeful that he'd managed to surprise him. _It seems everyone's trying to do that to me today._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, finding nothing about that funny. Nevertheless, he was still admittedly rather hungry, so he bit at a part of the croissant and pulled it off unsophisticatedly with his teeth. At least, with the driver hidden from view by a black screen in front of them, the only witness to his lack of manners was Mycroft, and he didn't really care about how he looked in front of his brother anyway.

They rode the car in silence for a minute or two, while Sherlock finished his food. When he had finally eaten all of it, Mycroft reached into an inner pocket. "I've got something for you."

Before Sherlock could respond with some kind of clever insult, Mycroft pulled out an iPhone – not at all a new one; it was battered and scratched and had more than a few tiny chunks carved out of it. His old phone, the one he'd tossed aside before jumping off Saint Bart's.

Sherlock's eyes widened for a split-second, before shamelessly, eagerly reaching out for it. "You…"

"Your colleague Miss Hooper passed it on to me the day you faked your suicide," said Mycroft plainly. The mention of her name produced a quick image of the girl in Sherlock's head, and he suddenly realized that he should probably pay her a visit now that he was back in London. But then the thought left his mind as he began tapping, clicking his way through his phone, checking if all of his old information and photos were still intact.

"I thought this had fallen with me," Sherlock muttered.

"It stayed on the roof, apparently," Mycroft replied, before sighing, "I'd say it survived just like you did. Stubborn little thing."

Sherlock was about to allow himself to smirk at his comment, before something he noticed, as he searched through his phone, caught his attention all of a sudden. He knitted his eyebrows, and any possible hints of a smile vanished from his face, replaced with hints of anger.

"My contacts list," he said in a low voice. "You've erased everyone. Except for _you_."

Mycroft shrugged with a frustratingly casual air. "Can't have you alerting all your friends that you're still alive just yet, can I? Before any of that, I've got to arrange for your relocation."

Had they not been in the cramped space of the back of a car, Sherlock would have lunged forward and strangled his brother. Instead he directed all of his rage into the intensity of his glare. "Right. So we're still on for that 'year of silence' I owe you?" he asked, scathingly.

"I know how easy it is to make me your enemy." Mycroft turned away and stared out the tinted window.

"Oh, I don't need to," Sherlock spat, shoving his phone into his pocket. "You make yourself that all on your own."

"I _don't_, if that surprises you," Mycroft snapped, facing back to him. "You think this is for my convenience? I've pulled enough strings for all this to happen to risk losing my position in the government. Sending you into hiding will make it harder for Moriarty's men to track you down than if you were blindly wandering the globe. This is all to protect you."

It was the closest thing to an expression of brotherly concern that could ever emerge between the two of them. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, before Sherlock directed his gaze towards the front of the car instead. "I can protect myself," he replied coldly.

He heard Mycroft laugh humorlessly. "No, I think not. You're a practically an expert at protecting your friends, I can give you that, Sherlock. But you care for yourself as much as you would a body at the morgue. And there's no use denying that." He was referring to his countless cases that had put him in near-death experiences, and even earlier than that when he would disappear from the city out of a reckless need to explore and investigate, and even earlier than that his use of drugs as a younger man. He was right about that, Sherlock thought, but of course he would never say that out loud.

"So don't go off whinging about how your big brother never lets you go out and do anything," Mycroft continued, returning to an annoyed tone. "This wretched country's given me enough trouble to deal with without _your _help." Then, in a peculiar move, he lifted an index finger and pointed at some general area of Sherlock's neck. "What is that?"

It took Sherlock a while to realize what he was pointing at, and an even longer while for his uneasiness about it to kick in. He was referring to a dark, reddened patch of skin at the side of his throat, gifted to him by a certain Miss Adler, though he couldn't quite remember whether it was from yesterday or earlier today.

"Bruise from the fight back in France," he answered curtly, and added nothing more. But the long silence, and the feel of his brother's stare lingering on him, gave him all the clues to deduce that Mycroft did not believe him one bit. Not at all.

"You _didn't_." The words escaped Mycroft's mouth sharply, though in a rage that was sophisticatedly restrained.

"Didn't _what_," Sherlock threw back at him a challenging look.

He'd half-expected his brother to roar something at him; instead he leaned back against his seat and gazed straight ahead, though his anger didn't seem at all diminished. "And here I was under the impression that you would never forgive Miss Adler."

"Oh please," Sherlock said irritably. "It's hardly what you think. It's not like we sat down for a long talk, cried in each other's arms and reconciled."

"Then what am I _supposed _to think," Mycroft snarled. "That you had a brawl in France, yelled at each other and then slept together?"

"I-" Sherlock paused. "-Yes, something like that."

Mycroft stared at him in wide-eyed, mad disbelief for several seconds. And then he finally gave up trying to figure out whether or not Sherlock was lying, and turned away from him in defeat. "Once we get home, I am locking you in your room until you bloody get yourself together."

It sounded someone scolding his child brother, and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the fact that Mycroft had to resort to such a tone of voice.

His brother was quiet for a while, before finally adding, "So _that's _how she got you out of France."

"What? _No_," Sherlock snapped, instantly jolted out of the triumph he'd been feeling over beating Mycroft at their game of surprises. "That was you and your damned tabloid trick. She convinced me that she had a place we could escape to. I didn't think it would be _here_."

"So did she convince you before or after you slept together?" Mycroft asked dryly.

"Oh, _stop_ using it as ammunition, Mycroft. Not everything I do with my life or what's left of it is your business," Sherlock growled. He faced away and found himself momentarily angry at both of them again, Mycroft and Irene, like he had been just a few hours ago. "You've humiliated me enough as it is, what with your grand show of pulling me out of Montpellier and locking me up in your home. Now, if you've got anything else to say on the matter that doesn't involve mentioning what I've done with Irene, I am all ears. Otherwise, _do_ shut up."

He crossed his arms and turned forward, his scowl still carved hard into his face. Mycroft said nothing again for a long time, and he hoped it meant an undisturbed silence for the rest of the car ride.

But he was caught off-guard again when Mycroft, in a low, almost murmuring voice, said, "You called her 'Irene'."

And Sherlock suddenly realized he had nothing to say in response.


End file.
